


Fear and Fascination

by onemorethingishouldntdo



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: AU, Depression, F/M, Kilgrave is a walking trigger, Love/Hate, Manipulation, Mind Control, Self-Hatred, Stalking, Suicidal Thoughts, Triggers for Kilgrave being Kilgrave, don't worry I hate myself too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-03 14:54:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5295548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onemorethingishouldntdo/pseuds/onemorethingishouldntdo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Kilgrave had realized that Jessica Jones was far more interesting when she's operating under her own free will?  Well, mostly. </p><p>Dark, Seriously AU Retelling .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. AKA Another Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Just want to say that anyone who has problem with me or this fic should please read this article: http://www.themarysue.com/kilgrave-fandom/
> 
> Also I DO NOT give my consent to have this fic used in any way, be it for articles, academic papers, or whatever else you may do. I write this to help women and men explore themes that can be difficult to parse out and to escape. We all have different ways of dealing with the monsters in our lives. This is mine. If you have a different way, that's cool. But this is fiction folks. NOT a template for a healthy relationship or reality: 
> 
> http://www.themarysue.com/kilgrave-fandom/

_Maybe it was time to leave New York_ , Kilgrave thought. In the cold November evening even the street-lamps' yellow lights felt dirty as they flooded the glistening concrete. The two women on his arm (marketing experts, models, or something)  certainly would’ve never come to this part of the city on their own. At least he didn’t think so. It was impossible to tell.  Over the years using his powers had become an unconscious, unbreakable habit. Sometimes he wondered if he forgot to command it the sun would rise. Other times he fantasized about a small cabina on the Cinque Terre, groves of lemon and olive trees spilling over steep cliffs bordered by dark, tangled forests dense enough that neither tourists nor the sun got inside. 

Then he remembered how shitty the Chinese food had been in Italy and thought better of it. Which reminded him. Where was he going to eat tonight? 

The African-American woman on his arm stumbled as her spindly heel caught in a crack in the sidewalk. She gasped like it was the end of the world.

Kilgrave rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

Her jaw snapped closed. Feeling generous, Kilgrave paused and allowed her to adjust her shoe. Although he counted silently to himself, _one you’re annoying me, two you’re annoying me…_

 He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d do on three. Thankfully for the woman he never found out.

A hundred yards ahead someone slammed into a metal fence back first, and then slid down to land in a pile of trash bags with a satisfying thump. Kilgrave's attention traced the arc of the man's flight to a slight figure on the other side of the sidewalk. In the shadows the assailant was a collection of ripped jeans, sneakers and a fake leather jacket, androgynous by way of appalling fashion sense. But that throw had been strong.   
  
The girls twitched on his arms, uneasy.   
  
“Stay," he commanded 

Another man lunged at the figure, crowbar extended. With deft, pale hands, the other fighter used the leverage of the bar to propel the second man to the fence along with his friend. Then when the first attacker roused the figure picked him up by the scruff of his sweater and flung him through the metal door of an abandoned food-truck, which popped off like a soda-tab. The bang was loud enough Killgrave winced, but his smile grew into a full grin. 

When it was clear the round was over, he found himself clapping in excitement, his heart pounding, for God's sakes.  “Now that was absolutely tremendous. Well done. Seriously, bravo!” 

The figure stiffened and turned.   
  
 Kilgrave’s breath caught in his throat. His little hero was a woman, and a beautiful one at that. Her tight jeans clung to her tense legs, and her face was pale with skin so clear it shone. Her halo of dark hair made her lips seem blood red. She was a goddess in rags. 

"Brava, actually," he said, correcting himself. The first time he had ever bothered.  

 Her lips parted, eyebrows raised. They all looked like that at first, startled.

 “Come here, let me look at you.”  Poor thing, all that power and she still looked like she had crawled out of a dumpster. 

 She shuffled toward him, the soles of her no-doubt warn sneakers scraping against the pavement. Once she got close he noticed her features weren’t really well fitted for her face; her eyes and lips were too big and the tip of her nose was ruddy from the cold. But their imperfection had it’s own kind of compulsion. He certainly couldn’t look away. 

 Next to him the girl wobbled on that blasted heel. His other companion might as well not been there at all. “Leave,” he said curtly. “Now. Both of you.”  

 They left.

 His hero jerked her head to evaluate his departing dates, but kept her conclusions to herself. She crossed her arms. “What do you want?”  Her flat, American affect matched her gothic features, but he could see the earnestness behind the sarcasm.

 "Me?" His hand fluttered to his chest in mock modesty. "Well to learn more about you. The was spectacular by the way, the throwing people around bits...  You're spectacular.” 

 The beginning of a smile crinkled all the way up to her luminous eyes. Of course. When he told _she_ was spectacular, suddenly in her mind she was. 

 “Tell me your name?” 

 “Jessica,” she said softly. 

 “Jessica,” he repeated. “And why did you fight them those thugs, hmm? Did they piss you off? Steal your wallet?” 

 Her eyes narrowed and she cocked her head, genuinely puzzled. “They were going to hurt him. They had a knife.”

 “Him?” A sour taste fermented in his mouth he spotted the third nobody. The mugging victim splayed up against the fence, indistinguishable from the garbage around him, his hand clutching his gut. Ah, the stab-ee.  “To be honest, Jessica, I think you could seek out a better cause if you're going for a feat of heroism," Kilgrave raised a finger,  "but serious points for execution.” 

 Her smile dulled and she blinked in confusion. 

 “Say thank you,” he prompted. 

 “Thank you,” she said numbly. 

He waved away her pitiful gratitude, annoyed. Making her parrot back his lines felt wrong. She wasn't weak like the rest of humanity. She was a goddamn shooting star, burning up any mortal foolish enough to get close. Which only left one question... “So this man, do you know him? Is that why you defended him?” 

 The man groaned grabbing one of the iron fence posts as if to try and pull himself up and answer Kilgrave himself. This stole her attention away immediately, bafflingly enough. She strode over and Kilgrave followed, curious. Why bother with the prop? The show was over. Unless it wasn't. Maybe she was going to toss him about too. 

Instead, she actually _kneeled_ down to his level. “Are you okay?” 

 “Ugh, I’m fine really.” The vagrant shrugged her off jerkily, doing a poor job of concealing his injuries. Weak. His face was covered with blood, but not more than Kilgrave had seen. Had spilled. “What’s up with him?” He nodded toward Kilgrave. 

 A snarl flared on Kilgrave’s nostrils.  

 “No idea. Just ignore him.”  His little hero pulled the man upright in a smooth motion. “I’m going to take you to an emergency room.” She slung the mans arm over her shoulder, supporting him as if he had all the mass of a hand-bag. 

 "Ignore me? After I've been so kind to you. Really, Jessica." Cold calmness spread from his fingertips up his arms and to his heart, and he slid his hands into his pockets in a motion too slow to be casual. “Face me. Both of you. Give me your full attention now.”

 He watched clinically as the man turned first, grunting with impressive effort against Jessica’s hold just to obey. Jessica followed soon afterward, again dragging her shoes against the pavement as she went. It was no wonder she didn’t have nice things, if that was how she treated her footwear. 

 Now she was point black glaring at him, not just sulkily but with righteous anger as if he were another thug.  “I don’t know how you’re doing this.” 

 “Doing what?” He tutted his tongue. “Trying to have a polite conversation with you?” 

 “Whatever that just was was more than a conversation. You were," she squirmed, "manipulating me somehow.”

 His eyebrows rose to his hairline and he shook his head, surprised by her for the second time that night. “I don’t know if anyone’s ever actually realized it while it was happening to them before. Perceptive, strong and beautiful. Be still my heart.  Now, tell me how do you know this man.” 

 “I—" the man started. 

 “Not you. Didn’t ask you.” 

 Jessica stepped forward, angling the wounded man away from him. Clearly she lacked a basic self-preservation instinct. “I don’t know him." 

 “Then why all the bother? Surely there are more exciting ways to use your,” he motioned to her as if her uniqueness was somehow tangible, “power."

 “It’s called being a decent fucking human being, asshole. You might try it sometimes. With your dates. Or, you know, the world in general.” 

 Kilgrave sucked in a breath through his teeth, and held up his palm to push away the instinct to tell her to snap her own neck. No one talked to him like that. But no. No reason to shoot the wild mare for bucking the bridle. Not one this unique. Just pull the bit tighter. 

 “You don’t swear at me,” he said in a low, even voice. 

 “I don’t swear at you.”  Her face slackened and she dropped the man’s hand. Her lips looked even softer under his control, her eyes wide, glassy, all of her taught muscles turned to gentle, even curves. She was beautiful this way too, but getting her here with only a few words for the first time almost felt like cheating. 

 “What the hell, man?” mumbled the man. “Leave her alone.”

  Nobility was catching. Unfortunately, on the face of someone who should’ve really been nothing more than a few lines in the police blotter, it looked rather pathetic. 

 He rolled his eyes. “You.” He pointed. Best to be clear. “Get away from us. Any direction’s fine. Just make it quick. Keep going forever. If someone asks you why, tell them it’s because you’re a bloody idiot.” He risked a glance at Jessica out of the corner of his eye. She didn’t look amused. “Oh come on, laugh. He’s stupid, obviously, or he wouldn’t have gotten mugged in the first place, _and he’s literally bleeding_.” 

 Beneath her ragged jacket her abdomen twitched with a spasm that might’ve been a chuckle, but the _oof_  that came out of her mouth sounded more like she had been punched. 

 He frowned. That hadn’t been what he was going for.

 She pressed her fingers to her stomach, eyes wide. Then she sprung around him, following the man. She really had an impressive vertical, and he had a feeling that wasn’t even all of it he had left to see. 

 “Jessica,” he purred. God, did he like the feel of her name in his mouth. “Stop now.”

 She stopped midair, crashing back to the concrete inches away from him. She landed with one hand on the sidewalk like she had jumped down from the top of a skyscraper. Obviously, she had practiced that pose. 

"Look at me."   
  
She rose slowly, as if taking the time to roll upwards vertebrae by vertebrae. When she was finally upright, she was close enough he could see the sweat beading on her brow. Clearly it wasn't from the jumping. She had been fighting his commands. Not winning though. Her neck craned, trying to make out the man as he disappeared into the shadowy depths of the construction overhang.  “Why are you doing this?” 

 “Can’t you guess?” He gave a tight smile. Her skin looked so delicate in the yellow light. Soft, if sallow. She wasn’t very well fed, but he'd fix that. He raised the back of his hand, just to touch her, and for a second she watched him, fear and a sliver of fascination fluttering in her erratic pulse. She drew back. 

 He stared hungrily after her, but didn't command her to return. Instead, he bit back a grin as he realized what he had just witnessed. She wanted him. Oh, she might not even know it herself, but she was at the very least curious. He wouldn't have to tell her to anything, just set up the right... situation, and let it play out. And, well, if it didn't go his way, he could always go back to loading the dice. 

“Now. I’m going to let you go in a moment, but let’s get a couple things clear. First, you won’t tell anyone about me. Second, you will meet me in two days on Friday at the Italian restaurant Il Rosso at 8pm. Wear something nice. Don't be late. And third, you will tell me your full name. Now. Once you do you may go wherever you like.”

"Jessica Jones,” she spat. With her dark hair covering one of her eyes, she looked all the world like a surly teenager getting ready for another schoolyard brawl. 

A smile curled the left side of his mouth, and he tilted his head. “Well then. Don’t be an idiot, Jessica Jones. You know what I can do, I’m sure you can imagine that charging me right now would be a bad idea.”

“Me and bad ideas are friends. Can't say the same for me and you.” She jutted her chin upward defiantly. 

 “Very nice. I’ll enjoy more of your snappy repartee at our dinner.” He pointed at her like a professor acknowledging a surprisingly insightful answer. 

“Have fun waiting, you...” Her lips pressed together, fist twitching, discovering the hard way that she couldn't curse at him. She could've ran though. Or tried to fight him. Instead she just glared  
  
He was tempted to ask her to smile. The sneer puckering her lips was repulsive, the loathing almost intolerable. Except… Her eyes. Jesus, they burned so hazel and bright in the night. Furious. Not just with him, but with herself and the world she thought he was a part of. He was wrong before, she wasn't shooting star. She was a sun, one that was far, far away and rose without his command. Why have a smile, when you could have  _that._

 He grinned himself, showing all of his teeth. “I’ll see you on Friday, Jessica Jones.”  
  
A biting wind whistled through the street, stinging her cheeks pink. Her heartbeat was so loud Kilgrave swore he could hear it. It was only when he cocked his head at her, that she must've realized she could've moved long ago and that the man was already getting dangerously far away.  Then she bolted into the dark night, searching for her lost heroism in the shadows.   

 


	2. AKA What the Heart Wants

 It wasn’t fucking real. None of it. Not the man running away, not the strange girls who walked like doll-twins even though one was brown and the other was white, and certainly not him -- the slender man in the rich purple suit with the hawkish nose and small eyes. 

 She had felt his stare  burning into her as she spent three hours scouring the city streets for the mugging victim.  She hadn't turned up much.  The guy had left no footprints in the layer of grime that had coated the sidewalk, and when dawn broke her lungs burned with cold and exhaustion. Even then she hadn't slept, but had called every hospital and police station in a five-mile radius. No dice. She hadn't had it in her to check the morgue.  
  
So by the time Thursday night limped around she had given up and by Friday she was back to doing shots at the bar, before heading to Trish's and her's apartment to pass out.  She had woken an hour ago, without an alarm, and now  an even more haggard than usual Jessica Jones stared back at her out of the bathroom mirror. Deep purple rings encircled her eyes and her throat felt dry from a perpetual hangover. Passing out really wasn’t the same as sleep. 

 Balanced on the sink, her phone’s screen held the time. 

  _7:00pm. Friday night._

 There were two impulses broiling in her blood. One plain and easy to understand, like she was a bird and Il Rosso was in her migration pattern. That must’ve been the asshole’s doing. 

 The second was a little more complicated. 

  _What if you went, would that really be so bad? He’s probably not even real. And if he is maybe you can make him pay for what he did to that man.  Or maybe he can make you pay? Isn’t that what you deserve? Can't keep a family. Can’t keep a job. Can’t save a man from a simple mugging. The only good thing you got left is —_

 “Jessica.” Trish banged on the bathroom door. 

 Jessica flinched and let go of the sink. She had been clutching it too tightly. You think she would’ve learned that was a bad move by now. 

 “Coming.” Jessica flicked on the faucet, splashing her face, welcoming the pang of the icy tap-water.

 “It’s not like you’re putting on any make-up on.”

 Jessica heard the doorknob turn behind her. “Really, Patsy, one of these days you’re going to walk in on me taking a shit.” 

 Trish’s face popped up in the mirror behind her: heart-shaped, tan, blonde and in spite of all that shit so genuinely friendly. She looked Jessica's ensemble up and down with gentle consideration. “You could borrow one of my dresses for the club, if you want.”

  _Fuck._ Jessica turned away so that Trish couldn’t see the guilt hunching in her shoulders. She had kept from canceling on Trish in some inane hope that because it wasn’t real, she wouldn’t have to go to Il Rosso. But the need dragging down each of her heartbeats made it very clear that she was going to that restaurant tonight.  

 “Trish,” she said slowly, “I’m not going dancing with you."

 Trish put her hands on her hips. “What? Monday you told me you wouldn’t let me go out unless you came. Creepy I love you notes from the man with the pumpkin on his head, remember?” 

 Jessica swallowed thickly. “Other plans. Can you stay in tonight?” 

 “Only if you tell me why.”  Trish tilted her chin in a demanding look Jessica would never tell her reminded her of Trish's mom. 

  _Because I’m having some kind of psychotic break that’s compelling me to go visit restaurants I can’t afford looking for a man who doesn’t exist, who I can’t even seem to tell you about._ “Client.” 

 Trish's expression brightened. “Your first client, Jess! That's fantastic. Can I come with? I’m going stir crazy..” 

 The bottom dropped out of Jessica’s stomach.  He hadn’t said anything about bringing someone with. That would be the simplest way to verify if he was real or not. But she'd never do that to Trish.  “It’s just a cheating husband. No world saving. Not up your alley.”

Jessica shook her head, making her hair cover eyes just like it used to when she was fourteen and trying to pretend there was no one else in the world but her and her Nirvana album. When all she wanted to do was to cry in somebody’s arms, maybe even Trish’s, instead of gasping strangled sobs into her pillow.

“I’m good with cheaters,” Trish said wickedly. “Remember, I had that whole segment. Five ways to catch him.” 

 “Another time, Trish."  Jessica slipped on her jacket, liking the feel of the roughness against her bare arms. This one's leather was real, and her silky white top underneath was the closest to nice any of her clothing got.

She offered Trish a thin smile, pocketed her phone and slipped out of the bathroom.  “See you around. Don’t watch Ice Truckers without me.” 

 “Jessica!” 

 The indignation in Trish’s voice stung, breaking through the compulsion moving her legs forcing her toward the exit. She stopped in front of the door, feeling her phone burning her pocket. She could almost see the time ticking away on the screen. 7:10 , 7:11. 

_Don't be late._

She flinched. His English drawl so clear in her head it was as if he was right next to her.  Her hand stalled on the doorknob. A thousand apologies clogged her throat. To Trish. To herself. But when she opened her mouth, the words didn't come, and instead she found herself yanking open the door and prowling out into the hallway.  Even as her thumb pressed the button on the elevator some part of her was screaming to turn around, to tell Trish everything, to do something, anything than what she was about to do. She wanted it so badly. 

The elevator doors opened, the green arrow pointing straight down. 

So badly.   
  
But clearly not badly enough.   
  
She stepped inside. 

 

 


	3. AKA Dinner with the Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys thanks for all the awesome reviews. I've decided to say fuck it and go without betas for now, because I'm kind of enjoying this weird process of just posting sans editor. But.... if you find any typos/inconsistencies please let me know (after you tell me nice things of course, my ego is as sensitive and ugly as a pimple.) !!

 

She aborted her plan to walk to Il Rosso the moment she realized she’d be five minutes late and instead hailed a cab, paying with her emergency cash. By 7:50 she had arrived and was swallowing back the sickly satisfying certainty that she had exceeded his expectations. It tasted like the bile on her tonsils right after she'd spewed up last-night's booze.

 

_ Fuck. I’m so fucked.  _

 

After watching the cabby disappear with a heavily accented, “Thank you very much,” she found herself with her red-tipped nose grazing the glass store-front of Il Rosso. It had only gotten colder and the wind knifed through her leather jacket. Pulling it closer didn’t help much. Her numb fingers yearned for the weight of a gun, even though she had never needed to fire one before. If the mind controller was real she wanted something to threaten him with that was less intimate than her bare hands. That he couldn’t control. But even triggers needed fingers to pull them. All he’d have to say was  _‘Put down the gun, Jessica.’_

 

How was it that she had only spent five minutes in this asshole’s presence, but she could summon a pitch-perfect recreation of his ambiguously English accent in her head?

 

_ Maybe because you made him up. _

 

She checked her phone.

 

7:52.

 

Her breath plumed in a gray purple-tinged cloud in the light of the flickering street-lamps even though the window of Il Rosso glowed a comforting yellow. It was full of people, and while she couldn’t hear what they were saying, she could guess. The stock-market blah blah blah. My nanny’s fucking my husband etc etc etc. 

 

Her gaze slid past them all.

 

Then she saw him.

 

He was a point of stillness in the chaos, sitting in the center table near the window. Alone, he stared straight at her with a piercing calm, and she just knew he had been watching her the whole time. A suggestion of a smile curled at the corner of his mouth. Almost in slow-motion he raised a hand. Then a finger. Bending it. Beckoning.

 

There may as well have been no barrier between them at all. Fire crawled across her skin, and she bit down on her tongue, but the pain didn’t help. His gesture was like a hook in her heart, if having your most vital organs torn apart could feel good. Her eyelashes fluttered as she remembered the way he had crooned her name.

 

_ Jessica.  _

 

Just like that she was opening the door and sliding inside. Warmth assaulted her first along with the smell of rich pastas, simmering fishes, and the subtle patter of supposedly civilized conversation, and she tried to linger awkwardly by the hostess, but her feet were determined to follow the path to his table.  She got there too soon. 

 

“Hello, Jessica.”  

   
 She started upward at his greeting, meaning to say something sarcastic, or better yet, just get the _fuck_ out of there, but she didn't. Instead she was stuck. Again. His effect was even worse up close.

 

He stood behind his chair politely, as if he needed her permission to sit down, but his gaze was unapologetically intimate. Drinking her in so intensely that she couldn’t help but reciprocate his attention. His high forehead, thick, sandy hair and carefully curated sprinkling of stubble would’ve been gentle on any other man, but on him, every feature branded itself onto her retinas. She tried to swallow, but couldn’t.

 

 “I’m so glad you came.” He grinned with honest pleasure, and that was the scariest part of all.

 

“I didn’t have a choice.” 

 

“Technically you did.” He brought up his wrist, laden with a sleek, no doubt expensive watch, and tapped it. “7:55. Could’ve waited another five minutes.” 

 

“You motioned me inside.” She cocked her head at a devil-may-give-a-fuck angle that was more confident than she felt.  

 

“That’s not how it works.” His dark eyes danced in excitement. “I say, you do. Anything else. Well,” he gave a close lipped smile that didn't manage to hide his manic delight, “that’s all you.” 

 

_No._ The floor lurched underneath her feet and she pressed her palm on the table for support.

 

He took advantage of her lost composure to walk neatly to her side and pull out her chair. 

 

She appraised it in blank horror. She didn’t choose this. It wasn’t really her. _Just like it wasn’t you in the car with your parents, right?_

 

When he leaned in it was close enough that she could smell his cologne. Black leather with a hint of vanilla. His breath tickled her ear. “Sit down, Jessica.” 

 

She plummeted into the chair like her ass was made of lead, and allowed him to scoot her in before he strolled back to his own seat. When he joined her at the table he regarded her with dilated pupils, but narrow eyes. “If you needed a dress, you could’ve said something when we met.” 

 

“Enough evening gowns in your closet to go around?” She was grateful for her reflexive sarcasm. That at least made sense. 

 

He chuckled dryly and spread wide his hands.“The world is my closet, Jessica Jones.” 

 

“And you’re just stuck inside it gathering the courage to come out.” Every word grounded her a little, evened her breathing. 

 

“Careful.” Hischin lowered to his chest, shoulders squaring the same way they had when he had first really tried to use his powers on her in the alley. Even though he said that they needed his voice to work, she felt his attention pulling at what Jessica might’ve called her soul. If she believed in that shit. 

 

She found her fingers running over grip of the dinner knife. The metal was soft and cool, but she knew it could still make him scream with just a flick of her wrist. Embedded in a neck or a groin, even a dull blade could hurt. But no, that would probably just piss him off, not stop his powers. Somehow she knew she'd have to kill him to do that. 

 

“Aren’t you pensive,” he said. “What are you thinking about? Tell me.” 

 

The sweat pooling in her palm turned the knife slick and hot. It slipped from her hand, thumping onto the bone-white tablecloth. “Whether or not I could kill you.” 

 

“Kill me. Jesus, that’s dark. Fascinating, all that misplaced righteous fury, but seriously twisted.” His eyebrows rose, eyes widening, as if she was some rare predatory bird he had just discovered. Then he spotted the knife and he grimaced. “Wait, can you actually kill me? Do you really want to? Answer honestly.”  

 

Emptiness snuck through her as his compulsion moved her lips, stealing the truth. “No.” _I don’t want to be a murderer. Again._

 

“Well thank God for that at least.” He blew out a stream of air in relief, his cheeks puffing out,although there was something a little play-acted about it.  Then he slid back into his colder, calmer skin, waving away her concerns.  “Anyway, of course, you don’t want to kill me.”

 

“You’re dangerous,” Jessica said more softly then she knew she really felt. _I don’t want to kill him._

 

He laughed. “I”m not the one threatening to kill people here. I’m taking you to a lovely dinner. Hardly motive for homicide. And, come on,” his voice dipped to a husky whisper, “we both know the truth here, what this anger of yours is really about.” 

 

_ He’s taking me to a lovely dinner.  _

 

The stuffy air seemed to clear, the scent of pasta thickening to mouth-watering, the background chatter soothing into an ambiance as calming as that shitty music they played at a spa. But it was the last command that saved her. 

 

_ We both know what this anger of yours is really about.  _

 

It gave her clarity, dragged her back to a moment long ago, sitting in her parents' car. The back of the semi-truck screaming toward them. Her brother screaming toward her. Her parents not screaming at all, frozen and silent. How she didn’t close her eyes, how after the fear her first reaction hadn’t been sadness or rage or any of the normal, healthy human things. 

 

It had been curiosity… 

 

She had always wondered if she’d have died if she closed her eyes. Or worse, if she could’ve saved her brother if she had shielded his body with her own. But no. She had been a morbid, selfish teenager, too stupid to realize looking at a black-hole was just as dangerous as looking into the sun.  And the fact that she was sitting here, five minutes early to her date with the devil was proof that she hadn’t grown up. 

 

_ I am fucking pathetic, but he's worse. _

 

She dug her nails into her palms until they broke skin.“You sentenced a man to die.”

 

“What?” He recoiled, losing his composure for only a moment before shaking his head, actually fucking offended. “I have no idea what you’re talking about and these accusations are getting — ” 

 

“Two days ago. Mugging victim. Stab wound. Run as far as you can, you bloody idiot? Ringing bells?”  

 

He took a deep gulp of water from his glass and sighed with almost tender exasperation. “Oh the garbage man! I can’t believe you’re still on that. He was bothering us. You, even. I was doing us a favor by telling him to leave. If he was sensible, he would’ve run to a hospital and let that be that. I probably saved his life. ” 

 

Jessica focused on the window and the dark street beyond. She’d welcome the numb solitude of prowling the streets right about now. “There were no records of an intake of a mugging victim at any hospital in a five mile radius.” 

 

“Again, I have to give you credit for full commitment to this hero thing. But has anyone ever told you need to learn to let things go?”  

 

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a psychopath?” 

 

“No one still alive.”The crows feet wrinkling at the corner of his brown eyes gave away that he was growing tired of her defiance. 

 

Good. She’d make him fucking exhausted. “Well dig me a grave.”

 

He surprised her by leaning forward onto his elbows with a sudden intensity. “I won’t let you die, Jessica Jones. Not as long as you’re here with me. That’s a promise. Now,” his voice lowered to a conspiratorial murmur, “do you think you’ll find him. Your run-away?”

 

Again, the world seemed to shift a degree, and she felt like she was sliding out of her seat. He didn't make any fucking sense. She reached for her own glass and it wasn’t until the rim brushed her lips that she remembered it didn’t actually hold any alcohol. She set it down. “Nope.” 

 

“Well, I have faith in you." His hand reached out to brush over hers, and to her surprise, it sent a tendril of warmth snaking up her belly. Her breath caught in her throat, and she must’ve been in shock, because for one second, she just watched as he slowly caressed the back of her hand with his thumb.

 

_ He could make me fuck him with a word.   _

 

She darted saw. “Don’t touch me.” 

 

“Come on, Jessica.”

 

There was that accent again, that lilting plea that snuck under her skin and into her veins, until his very voice could tame the tides of her blood and conduct the beating of her heart. And it wasn't even a command.   


 

“Go fu,” she spat or tried to, the words turned to glue in her throat. That was right, he had commanded her not to swear at him. Her grimace turned to a full blown snarl. “Go screw yourself, butthole.” 

 

His gaze was resigned, cold. “I really didn’t want to have to do this to you. I’d much rather have you as you are, but to be honest you’re not being a very good dinner companion right now. And I’ve been very patient.” 

 

“Go ahead and try.” She trembled, shoulders almost up near her ears, waiting for him to tell her to cut out her tongue or whatever sick shit he had planned next. _Whatever it is I can handle it. I can fight it. Just like I have been already. And if I can’t, if I lose, well it's not like I don't deserve whatever horrible shit he's going to put me through._

 

“All right, if that’s what you want." He pursed his lips, inhaling, drawing back with a resigned sigh. “How about, this: You know you should be polite to me, Jessica Jones, and you’re very sorry you haven’t been. There.”  

 

_I should be polite to him, and I’m sorry I haven’t been._ It was amazing how quickly and thoroughly his commands slid into her thought patterns, as if they had always been there. Like how the smell of your house doesn't register, until you manage to get away from it. And there was no getting away from him. 

 She blinked and frowned at her napkin, for the first time feeling out of place at the restaurant, biting her lip, realizing how awkward it had been for her to be so abrasive. And to dress so informally and then try and accuse him of something at every turn? It was no wonder he’d had to use his power on her. 

 She smiled at him, although it didn’t really feel like her smiling. Her muscles seemed to twist on their own. This was such a different sensation than when he had motioned her inside. That had been like him finding some secret part of her and pulling.  This was like he was trying to stuff someone else into her nerves. It wasn’t just that she was out of control, like she had one too many shots or was driving too fast, but like someone else was. Not him. But who he thought she was. 

 With his simple directives, she was still able to retain herself:  _Tell the truth. Come to Dinner._ Maybe because might’ve done them anyway. With others she could fight through: _This is a lovely dinner. You don't want to kill me._ But be polite to him, and to feel _sorry_ that she hadn't been. To hate herself for not doing as he asked?  Jessica wasn’t even polite to Trish when she told her to take out the trash, and Trish was a saint.  
  
_But why not be polite? I should be. Maybe then I wouldn’t disappoint everyone. Maybe I wouldn’t disappoint him. God, I’ve disappointed him_. 

 “I’m sorry,” she found herself saying, her voice higher-pitched, as if worried that the very act of speaking was some kind of imposition. The imposter inside of her was gaining strength until she wondered if this Jessica was actually the real one, and her whole life she had been the one faking it. Lying.  

It was all so embarrassing, that she had even bothered to think about it in the first place. Really she should just change the topic. She felt like she was falling, falling, falling, and no matter how hard she clung to the table, she kept going down. 

 “That’s enough.” 

 The man’s sharp voice cut through the haze instantly. She hated herself for the relief it brought. 

 “Back to normal now, Jessica. Easy,” he coaxed. 

 She had been hyperventilating without realizing it, chest rising and falling so fast she had popped open the buttons on one of her leather jacket. Her head still spun. “W-what was that?” 

 “That,” he said cooly, “is what neither I nor you want, Jessica. You don’t seem to react to well to me using my powers on you to control you completely. But that doesn’t mean I can’t. Or that I won’t, if I have too.” 

 She gulped down the air, but it still tasted too warm, in spite of the shiver that rocked through her. Then she looked up at him, not able to keep her eyes anything but wide, and glistening. “Don’t do that again.” She couldn’t stop her next strangled word. “Please.”

 He nodded once to himself, satisfied, but said nothing. It took Jessica almost thirty seconds to realize he had actually listened. But he wasn’t persuaded yet. 

 Of course. He wanted a fucking apology. 

 Well, if that would save her ass, at this point she'd do it. She'd do anything to not feel that way again.   “I’m sorry,” she said flatly. “I’ve been rude.”

_And you deserved it yo u motherfucking asshole. _

 Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who thought so, an older Asian woman and her mousy daughter were peering at them with concern. When the woman noticed Jessica staring back, she asked sharply, “Is this man bothering you?”

 He didn’t give a chance for her to answer. “No, but you’re bothering us. Just eat, silently, and don’t stop for anything.” His metallic voice rose until it cut through the chatter of the restaurant, “Now.  All of you. And if you or anyone else bothers us again I’ll…” He stalled, looking at Jessica out of the corner of his eye and reconsidering something. He huffed. "Get back to your meals. Yeah?” 

 The woman and daughter’s heads snapped to their table, and they both dove into the previously untouched breadbasket with silent, but wild abandon. After they finished that, the older woman began to nibble on her napkin. 

 Jessica wasn’t sure what was worse, how easy using his power was for him, or the fact that he seemed like he was holding back. For her. If this was him on good behavior…

 “Who are you really?” she muttered.

 He heard anyway, of fucking course, and loved it, practically preening at the awe she had let slip. “Kilgrave.”  He held out his hand across the dinner table.

 “Kilgrave?” She had a thousand witty remarks to that, but she held them all in. It was if he had designed his name specifically to bait her.  And Jessica saw how well falling for his bait had gone last time. Her nerves prickled at the remembrance.  _Be polite. And be sorry._ _  
_

 He tilted his head to his still outstretched hand.

 Fighting back a sneer, she took it, surprised by the strength of his grip as his fingers folded around hers. This time he didn’t caress her, but that didn’t make it much better. Just making contact with his skin sent a fizzle of electricity down her spine.  It practically paralyzed her until he was the one to draw back first, not even bothering to hide the satisfied twitch that was trying and failing to pass for anything but a smug-ass smirk. Thankfully, before he could do anything else, the waiter stopped in front of their table. 

 Jessica's jaw un-gritted. She was relieved for the interruption, and then guilty for feeling relief. The waiter might not look like anybody, with his starched black shirt and pants, but he was. He had a friends. Family. Just like the man she had tried to save on the street.   Kilgrave was looking at him like he didn’t. It was different from the way he regarded her. Somehow she knew that she was a thousand times more safe around him than the average human. Which really, when it came down to it, wasn’t safe at all. Zero times anything was still zero. 

 “Hello, M’am, Sir.” The waiter nodded to Kilgrave last.

 Kilgrave didn’t like that. 

 Jessica’s hands scooted toward the knife again. Although it was an empty threat and she knew it. She flinched, remembering how she had folded her hands so daintily under his influence.

To Jessica's relief, the waiter was good at his job, and softened his body language, giving his full attention to the megalomaniac of the table. “Can I get you started with an appetizer or would you like a little more time?” 

Kilgrave thrust both of the menus toward the waiter.  “Tell the chef to make us the bronzino, the watermelon and feta salad, the pasta amatriciana and the quail egg with capers bruschetta. As for wine bring us a Brunello di Montalcino from say… ’92. If anyone asks why you’re giving this all to us for free, we’re from Michelin, and whether you keep your star tonight depends entirely on if you and the chef can impress us.” Kilgrave raised his eyebrows. “Got it?” 

 The waiter nodded, swallowed. “Yes, of course. Right away.” Jessica could see his new respect in his now economical movements and downward gaze. He wasn’t just obeying, he actually believed that they were who he said they were. 

 Kilgrave couldn’t just command people. He could change their realities. He had already changed her’s. She was sitting up straighter than usual, and her skin felt warm and glow-y. Words teemed at her tongue, witty and otherwise. It was hard to believe only ten seconds ago she had been practically shaking in fear for him.

 _This is a lovely dinner._  
  
If his order to be polite had been like a tsunami, most of his commands were a strong, subtle current, taking the flow of her own thoughts and just _shifting_ them a little. She could swim against it all she liked, but her progress was still inexorably downstream. 

  _Run. Run before you can’t._

 She needed to get the fuck out of here with minimal collateral damage now. She looked down at the knife again. Maybe if she threw it fast enough somewhere to create a distraction. But where? 

 As surreptitiously as possible, she tried to scope out the joint. But the more she looked, the more knots her stomach twisted into. At first the scene looked normal, couples and families tearing through plates of bruschetta and gnocchi. More and more of them had finished their meals and moved onto to trying to consume whatever else was left at the table. Sucking on silverware, chomping at the crystal, finally her eyes landed on the woman on the next table over, who had moved from nibbling at her napkin to pushing it into her mouth and down her own throat like some kind of magic trick in reverse.

Jessica sucked in a breath, her whole body aching from the sudden, cold truth. Kilgrave was a sociopath. She had been sitting her bantering, quipping, practically fucking flirting with a sociopath, only to have a panic attack just because he made her say some please and thank you’s. All the while the woman right beside her was close to dying, just because he gave too few shits about human life to think before he spoke. And by proxy, now Jessica had too. 

 No, running wasn’t an option anymore. 

 She had to stop him.

 

 

 

 


	4. AKA Jump Off a Building to See If You Fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kind words folks. As always if you see a typo/inconsistency, let me know. I'm rolling without betas for the moment, but every little bit helps. Oh and ten points to Slytherin (because lets not kid ourselves, if you're reading this fic you're Slytherin all the way) to whoever finds the 30 Rock reference first.

“You have to tell them to stop.”

Jessica Jones was stunning when she was angry. Kilgrave watched in awe as she rose out of her chair, fascinatingly still, except for a twitching in the tense line of muscles running up her long, bare neck.  It took him a moment to find words.

“Stop what, Darling?”  
  
The soubriquet captured her attention, and she glared over her shoulder at him.  “The woman, she’s two seconds away from blocking her windpipe with a napkin. She’s going to choke.”  
  
“So?”  
  
 “So you’ll kill her, if you don’t do something." She groaned in frustration, unconsciously sensual. "Now.”  
  
Jessica was right. The woman's  gasps had become un-ignorably audible, and her washed, if wrinkled face was made even more ordinary by its hopefully final contortions. He'd seen that expression millions of times. The cab-driver who didn’t go fast enough. The model who was a little unconvincing when she cooed how sexy he was. The dry-cleaner who had ruined his suit.  
  
He shrugged and looked away. "People die in all sorts of ways, really. It’s hard to know what’s me or… bad luck.”  
  
She shook her head in disbelief. Then she swept her arm in front of her, brushing away the chair blocking her path. It skidded across the hardwood floor with a speed that defied the laws of physics before slamming into the opposite wall and loosing a leg with a crack. Kilgrave saw all happen out of his peripheral vision, his head cocked. He knew a distraction when he saw one, and when it came to Jessica Jones, everything but her was a distraction. She thought he was fooled, though, as she sprung toward the woman. Like it would be so easy.  
  
“Your turn to stop now, Jessica.”  
  
He reveled in the little details as she obeyed, the way her hair kept moving even as her feet landed back on the ground.  One of the buttons of her cheap jacket had already popped out long ago and he noted the silkiness of her beige top rippling underneath, as well as the hint of soft skin peeping out from the folded collar. Like an invitation.

Kilgrave knew he wasn’t all-powerful. Stopping hearts was out, as was messing around with memories, and even emotions could get tricky. Yet his Achilles heel was a blessing in disguise. If he couldn't command the impossible, than everything he did command had to be, in some way or another, what the person would've done anyway. Eventually and under the right circumstances.

And Jessica Jones was no exception.   
  
“You’re a monster,” she hissed.  
  
“A monster?” Kilgrave recoiled. The venom in her voice stung like a needle in his spine, but as he inhaled, the smell of her, not of whiskey or pasta or sandwhiches, but of _her_ , lingered faintly on his tongue. Just enough to center him. “I’m disappointed in you, Jessica. One little I’m sorry and then all this. It’s like you’re not even trying to be polite, and you certainly don’t listen. I said ’Get back to eating.’ not ‘Stuff a napkin down your throat.’ She was the one who decided napkins are supposed to be edible. You can’t blame me for her stupidity.”  
  
Her body shook, and the warm temperature was too mild for it be from the cold. She really was trying to disobey him.  And for what?  The woman was still pushing the napkin down her own throat, eyes as glassy and dumb as a cow’s. Too stupid to be afraid.  
  
Jessica on the other hand had retreated into herself, her body angled away from him. Away from herself even. She wasn’t here. Not completely. What was she thinking about?  
  
She didn’t notice as he stepped behind her. Close. Closer than he had ever been before. His nose brushed the protective shell of her hair, and her scent strengthened in his mouth. She trembled as he pulled away her hair so that he could see the goosebumps freckling her skin from where his hot breath touched. “I’ll tell you what, how about we make a deal for that creature’s life.”  
  
That drew her attention back to reality. The bitch was still alive. She had a couple of more seconds left. Maybe.  
  
“You tell me a secret. Let’s say the one you least want me to know,” he whispered against the shell of her ear. “Do that, and I tell them all to stop. A fair fun little trade.” He was monologuing now, more for the excuse of savoring those blessedly torturous centimeters between his body and the curve of her pert ass than because he cared for the sound of his own voice. “Tell me a secret, and save them. Or don’t. Your choice.”  
  
“You’re lying.”  
  
“Want to find out?”  
  
Following the trajectory of her gaze, Kilgrave realized Jessica wasn’t actually looking at the woman, but her daughter, who was sitting across from her, sucking on a spoon like she was some sort of developmentally stunted toddler. Helpless. Even more useless than her mother.   
  
But something changed in Jessica as she stared at the girl. Her back straightened, tension not so much leaving her body as drawing inward toward her core. "Fine." She jerked her head to the left and then words rushed out of her, as fast and rough as if he had compelled them.  “You want my worst secret? Some fucked up part of me wanted to come here tonight. To see if I could stop you, or…”  
  
“Or?” The perfectly tailored seams of his suit felt too tight.  He wanted to be naked against her.  
  
“What it would be like if I couldn’t. What you might do to me. What I might deserve.” Her shoulders rolled back, thrusting out her chest like a soldier as she turned on her heel. Soon they were nose to nose, so close they could kiss. Except the cross between a snarl and an animal grin bruising her mouth was the furthest thing from a kiss Kilgrave could think of.  
  
“So yes,” she said. “Some part of me wants you. I’m a selfish, beyond fucked up woman, apparently drawn to the bottom of the mother-fucking barrel of humanity. Shit, I once jumped off building to see if I could fly.”  
  
  An answering smile burned across his face at her confession. The way she twisted together her vulnerability and her strength was a sight more awe-inspiring than the deep crags of the grand-canyon or the perfect pirouette of a Russian ballerina. Jesus christ. He imagined her hurling herself from the building, her black hair trailing behind her, eyes wide open as she took in the ground rushing forward. He imagined catching her, how it would knock all the breath out of him. He couldn’t breathe  now. Except..  
  
“But I’m not going to drag anyone else down with me. Now save them,” she ordered. “Save them all or I swear to God I will break your fucking neck.”  
  
_Fucking neck._  
  
“What did you say?” Kilgrave rasped, rocking back onto his heels, stunned. His mouth dried, the exhilaration freezing in his blood. She had sworn at him. She had _sworn_ at him, after he had expressly told her not to.   
  
“You heard me.” Blessedly, she was too embroiled in her own heroics to catch her slip. Maybe if he was quick she wouldn’t notice. Or maybe it was a fluke. They were running up on dear old Mum’s guaranteed 72 hours deadline for that order. He must’ve counted wrong.  
  
“Stop eating, all of you,” he barked. They, at least, listened, thank God. Their voices crescendoed into a confused babble. The woman had flopped back into her chair and still wasn’t moving. He frowned and waved viciously. “Did you not hear Jessica? Save the sodding woman. Call 9-1-1. Whatever shite you need to do, do it.”  
  
That got them going, but still not fast enough. “Now!”  
  
 Lips parted, cheeks flushed, Jessica stared at him, panting like she had just jumped over the Empire State Building. “Now let me go.”  
  
“Let you go?” Remarkable. She had no idea that she had broken his control. And perhaps she hadn’t completely, if she was still unable to move. He laughed, high and sharp, in relief. He was tempted to start applauding again.  
  
“Yes,” she said calmly, no doubt comforted by the fact that some brave soul had stuck their hand down the woman’s throat and pulled out the napkin. The woman wasn’t moving yet, but she would soon, surely.  
  
Jessica on the other hand, kept her feet planted right where he wanted them.  
  
In the distance the looping whine of emergency vehicles was closing in, which meant two of his least favorite things: cameras and questions. He’d have to leave soon. No. _They’d_ have to leave soon. There was no way he was abandoning his Jessica now.  
  
“Oh, sweetheart.” His affection weighed heavy and warm in his chest. He brought his hand up to caress her cheek. She flinched away, or tried to, but there was nowhere to go. He nudged her back toward him. “You really think that after that display, that _admission_ , you could have anything other than my complete and undivided attention.”  
  
Jessica opened her mouth, ready to deny it again, no doubt, or worse. But he didn’t let her. Cupping her face in his hands he brought their lips together with brutal tenderness. It was surprisingly awkward, at first. He couldn’t remember the last time he had ever kissed someone not under his control. She didn’t know to yield when his tongue sought hers, or that he liked his lower lip bitten just so, and her body was hard against him, instead of pliable.

But she tasted better than Priemiere Cru Burgundy.  
  
She growled, making the column of her throat buzz against his skin, and then her fingers actually laced through his hair. Years of refining his pallet allowed him to smell her arousal, no doubt pooling between her thighs. Earthen. Rich. She hadn’t been lying about wanting him. It was habit more than anything else that made him break the kiss and flutter butterfly touches along her neck up to her ear. “You want me, Jessica Jones.”  
  
It was impossible to say whether the command had worked or not, because nothing changed. She didn’t melt against him, but neither did she pull away. When her hands fell against his chest, he gripped them by the wrist, his thumb caressing the delicate lines of her veins.  
  
So much power was in those hands. All his. She was his. Fucking her would be one of the greatest joys of his life.  
  
She rose to her tip-toes, her soft lips touching his ear for a change.  
  
He tensed in anticipation of what she would admit next.   
  
Her exhalation was rough against him.  “What I want most of all, you sociopathic son of a bitch, is to get your ass arrested.” Then with a wrench she twisted herself out of his grip.  
  
He grunted in pain and surprise.  “Stop,” he commanded reflexively, stumbling backward.     
  
 It didn't work. Of course. His mouth twisted into a rueful grimace. He should’ve known. He never counted wrong.  
  
She grabbed him roughly by the shoulders, smirking at him. The bloody cheek. “I’m taking you to the police-station.”  
  
If he weren’t close to terrified, he would’ve rolled his eyes. His heart was practically cardiac. This couldn’t be happening. “Enough, Jessica.”  
  
Tightening her grip, her fingers viced around his arm, bunching up the fabric of his suit.   “Why? I’m sure they’ve got a cell there that will fit your Armani-ass just fine, if you come quietly.”

"Armani, what am I, a farmer?" He shook his head, realizing the stupidity of impressing the virtues of bespoke fashion on Jessica Jones at a time like this.  
  
Lights joined the sirens, casting Il Rosso in a kaleidoscope of overly saturated red’s and blues. Ironically, it was this that calmed him enough to accept the truth. Somehow, she was able to disobey him. The sensible thing to do would be to kill her right now, before she could get into any more trouble. But with the way she had tasted, had writhed against him… No that was out.  
  
“Do you really want do to this?" he asked, proud for keeping the whine out of his voice. “I don’t think you’re thinking this through. What will you tell them? That a man mind-controlled you into going on a date with you?”  
  
“I have witnesses.”  
  
“And you don’t think I couldn’t command them. Or the policemen too?”  
  
He realized a beat too late the problem with his own argument. He was so used to people being unable to kill him that he had forgotten that she could right now, if she wanted to. And he had just made clear that was the only way she could take him down.  
  
How had this turned into such a bloody mess?  
  
She regarded him through narrowed eyes. 

“Waiter,” he howled. “Slit your throat with the steak knife. Now.”  
  
Jessica held onto him for a moment before it sank in. Her eyes were so wide and brown, she actually looked as if he had betrayed her somehow. Well, one had to be more than a little delusional, to call themselves a hero. The waiter already had picked up the knife and was bringing it to his neck.  
  
Kilgrave smiled, not unkindly, and inclined his head behind him.  
  
“You mother fucker,” she swore letting him go, to attend to yet another one of her victims. Kilgrave didn’t bother watching their struggle, but pivoted neatly to face the rest of the restaurant.  
  
“All of you,” he bellowed, “listen up. If Jessica Jones tries to leave this building in the next twenty minutes, kill yourselves. Once the police get here you tell them nothing. Good?”  
  
A few of them actually nodded. The lemmings. Kilgrave started to move the front exit, but black clad policeman were trundling out of their cars. Damn. Damn. Damn. He slipped toward the back way, and in the process noticed Jessica, still caught in a struggle with the waiter. She spotted him, and started up from her battle like a lioness from a kill. She didn’t say anything, and neither did he, just watched her, his chest still foolishly warm with fondness. Then he forced himself to school his expression into his usual stylish nonchalance, brought two fingers up, gave a cheerful wave, and did the only sensible thing.   
  
He ran. 


	5. AKA No One Suspects the Sandwich

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all. Thanks for all your support on this fic. I really appreciate it. As some of you may know this fic was mentioned on an article shaming Kilgrave/Jessica pairing, and it really freaked me out. Since then I've deleted some comments on this and other fics. That has nothing to do with the comments themselves, but I wanted to remove any and all identifying information from this account. 
> 
> That said, I'm not going to stop, because FUCK people who want to police what we like. Fanfiction's purpose is explore and tackle tough topics, and I think anyone that reads this fic will understand that. 
> 
> A.) This is AU, and my Kilgrave while morally reprehensible, is not canon or evil in some of the ways that canon Kilgrave is. There will be some changes to his back-story that some astute readers have already noted (such as his powers lasting more than 72 hours). That's on purpose. And you'll see why down the road. 
> 
> and B.) I would posit that the whole thesis of this fanficiton and a lot of my writing is: How do we handle our desire for problematic relationships and people? 
> 
> And instead of just trying to not feel something or shame people for their Id, I think it's much more interesting to say, okay well why do you feel that way, how do you deal with that. So I changed Jessica to be someone who has to confront that question. That's a very different question than the one offered by the show: How do you deal with trauma and abuse? Which is why this is is described as a "very AU" retelling. 
> 
> If you find yourself triggered by this, I'm sorry. The best I can offer to you is to not read. 
> 
> Alrighty, that aside, here's a new chapter. I hope you enjoy and encourage you to leave me your thoughts. 
> 
> As always un-beta'd so typo-finders welcome!

 Three seconds. 

 She spent three fucking seconds watching Kilgrave as he waved goodbye. It was impossible not to be fascinated by how elegant his mannerisms were.  He was like one of those stars in an old movie who always had a witty reply ready or, if that failed, a revolver, but his eyes, the corners of them were so soft. He had just ordered a man to kill himself and he was staring at her like…

 Three seconds and then she remembered her rage, but by then it was already to late.

 A scream tore through her focus so shrill it made her fingernails vibrate. The stemware hummed.  

 “Shit.” 

 Beneath her the waiter had grabbed the steak knife and was dragging it slowly across his throat. Jessica was lucky Kilgrave hadn’t ordered him to be quiet or she might not even have noticed. She dove back down, pinning him again to assess the damage. Less blood than she would've thought trickled down the serrated steel edge and onto his collar, which was too dark to show the stain. The incision that ran across his neck was more of a shallow line than a life-ending gasg, but it must have fulfilled the requirements of Kilgrave’s command, thank fuck, because before she had a chance to rip the knife from his hands, the waiter let it clatter to the floor. 

 “Is it bad?” he asked, cringing. His once deft fingers fumbled up to his neck and came away wet and dark red. “It’s bad. Oh God.” 

“You’re not going to die,” Jessica lied. She had no idea if he would or not, but making him panic more wouldn't help.

 Ignoring her, he began to pray with mumbled reverence to no-one in particular, “I love my family. Please, keep them safe." 

 Jessica rolled her eyes, because if she let herself feel anything else it'd be pure terror. Then she'd be shaking on the ground, praying to no one too. Funny thing about no one -- they never listened. With a tug, she yanked a table-cloth out from a nearby two-top. There was a crash as a cascade of plates and silverwear tumbled to the floor on the other side of the table. Jessica ignored it in favor of twisting the cloth into a make-shift bandage before clamping it against the man's wound. Hard.  
  
 “Hey!” the he yelled, his eyes flying open. “What are you doing?”

 He had enough air-flow to breathe and was irritable enough Jessica guessed he was in pain. This meant he was wasn't passing out, let alone dying. Hopefully. 

 “Hold that against your neck." 

 One side of his face squirmed quizzically. 

 Grabbing his hands, she placed them on top of the napkin to hold it in place.  “Tightly. The paramedics will be here soon, but this should stem the bleeding until then.”

She didn’t wait to see if he listened, but sprung to her feet. Where Kilgrave had been there was only a lean potted plant. He had probably scurried out the back door.  From there things got a little shittier to parse out. She had no idea where he lived -- if he even lived anywhere specific. With his powers he could squat in the Empire State building and no one would give a fuck. Or maybe he was afraid enough of her now to flee the country. Her stomach unclenched with shameful relief at that possibility. Un-fucking-fortunately, though, she had more immediate problems than tracking down a super-powered psycho.  
  
Two police officers were pushing wide open the front doors to let in a stream of paramedics. While no yellow-tape had been unfurled yet, the taller of the two cops, a broad-shouldered blond man who had a face like a knock-off action figure, was already herding people to the exit.

 Jessica didn’t follow. Echoes of Kilgrave's orders still vibrated through her bones.

  _If Jessica Jones tries to leave this building in the next twenty minutes, kill yourselves._

Most of the crowd seemed to have forgotten the command, and Kilgrave in general. They were allowing themselves to be pushed out into the cold, late night where they could catch cabs after giving statements. But there were moments when the flickering of the red and blue emergency lights turned a man's impatient scowl into a suspicious sneer or a woman's thin-lipped smile into a grimace. The world that could be flashed in colored strobes onto the world that was.

The choking victim was the only one not leaving.  Paramedics swarmed around her, loading her up onto a stretcher before snapping an oxygen mask across her face. Through the crowd, Jessica thought her eyes were closed, but it was hard to be sure. 

_She’s not dead. Don’t let him play these games with you. You broke his control. You saved her._

Her skin itched with the sensation of being watched, although in the shifting crowd no one met her gaze. It took her looking through everyone once and coming back to the woman on the stretcher -- now halfway to the door -- to find her spy. It was the woman's daughter. With her small eyes and smooth, moonish face, Jessica couldn't read the girl's expression, but she didn't have to. Jessica knew what it was like to stand over your mother's body. The anger and helplessness still pulsed in the tips of her fingertips, even now, after all this time. 

She wanted to tell the girl she was sorry, but she knew it wouldn't be enough. It never was. At least this girl's mother wasn't dead. Not yet. They'd have zipped her up into a black bag. Hunching her shoulders, Jessica turned away, heading toward the bathrooms in the back, but she was so busy trying to not look at the girl, she ran straight into the starched uniform clad chest of one of the cops. 

The bass grunt of surprise and the hardness of her impact let her know it was the man before she saw him. "M'am we need everyone to head outside."   
  
"Sorry." Jessica twisted her body to slip past him. "I think I left my purse in the bathroom." 

He side-stepped her, so that she had to stop or else run into him again. "One of the other officers will get it." 

Jessica grimaced, then managed to shoot him what she hoped was an innocent smile. "It will just take a second, please." 

The man was handsomer up-close, with his dark, old-school sideburns and what could've been a tough-but-fair frown. Trish's kind of macho-guy. Although how he crossed his arms just to make his unhealthily massive biceps flex, would've pissed even Trish off. "Orders are orders." 

"My mom's in surgery and I'm expecting a text update." Resigned, Jessica suck in a sharp breath, as if she was stifling back a sob. "My phone's in there. She could be dead and I wouldn't--" a little stutter in her now one-octave higher whine, "know."   
  
It was ridiculously bad acting. Of course he fell for it. They always did. 

On cue, the man frowned, making his nose wrinkle into a piggish-button. "Hey, I know you, don't I?" 

“What?” 

 “You’re Jessica Jones.”   
  
A shiver rippled through her blood. “Excuse me?”

“You’re the Hoagie Hero, the girl who dressed up in the sandwich to save the girl from the car-crash,” he said with a tight-lipped grin.  
  
The relief tinging her cheeks quickly gave way to annoyance, half at this asshole cop and half at whatever reporter decided to call her the "Hoagie Hero." She had missed that one. The other neighborhood rag who had decided she was a good human interest blurb to fill a couple of inches had settled on "The Super Sandwich."   
  
"That costume was a job. Not a choice."  
  
 “There’s a betting pool in my office that says you’re one of them.” No, that wasn't a grin. That was a patronizing fucking smirk.

“One of what?”

 “The superheroes.” 

“Well, I’m not. Just right place right time.”  
  
 “I know. Trust me, I know.” He edged in her personal space, his breath so aggressively minty it stung her skin. It was like he had downed a whole bottle of Listerine. “But these guys they want to believe that doing the right thing takes some kind of fancy costume. ”

 “I’m always saying the police don’t get enough credit,” Jessica chimed, trying her best not to sound too sarcastic. Fucking male egos with the need to see everything as a zero-sum game. Like anytime anybody but them was a hero, it took away from their glory. Still she kind of agreed with him. Costumes sucked. 

 The man nodded and stepped back, his brow furrowed. There was a thickness to his expressions, as if everything took way more effort than it should. “And hey, sorry about your Mom. I’ll let you go get your purse, just have a couple of questions first to get out of the way. Standard procedure.” 

 “Sure,” Jessica nodded. She didn’t actually need to go to the bathroom after all. She just couldn’t leave. And talking here, with this asshole cop, while un-fun, accomplished that job well enough. 

 He fished a bulky, modified Iphone out of his pocket, and began to tap something into it. Recording their conversation, probably. Jessica vaguely remembered something about new laws being put on the books after the recent wave of crime in Hell's Kitchen.

“My name's Officer Simpson, and I'm going to take care of you quickly. Let's start with your name,” he said still overly involved with his phone. The tech couldn't have been that hard to operate. 

 “You already know my name.” 

 “Right.” He chuckled to himself. “I’ll just need you to say it for the statement.” He tapped his screen. 

 “My name is Jessica Jones.” 

 “And why did you come to Il Russo tonight.” 

 God, it was tempting to tell the truth, but if there ever was a man unlikely to believe her it was this Hitler-youth reject. “I had a meeting.” 

 “With who.” 

 “A client. For work.” 

 “Interviewing for a position as a walking pasta bowl?”

“I’m a P.I now.”  
  
“Oh,” his lips pursed and he nodded to himself vigorously, holding back some comment. Jessica understood the feeling, but that was the limit of her sympathy. “What did he want to hire you to investigate?” 

 “Cheating wife.” 

 When lying it was best to keep the story consistent, and since the cheating wife bullshit was what she had told Trish, it’d do here too. It’s not like Kilgrave was ever going to come in and contradict her. 

“And where is he now?” 

 “He seemed like a bad character, so I told him I wouldn’t take the job. Then he left.” 

 “What about him seemed like a bad character?”

 “Just instinct.” 

 “Then why meet with him for dinner at all?” 

 Her heart pounded in her chest. Not from the line of questioning, but from the memory that snuck through her. The way he had beckoned her with his finger. How he had tied his puppet strings around her and not even pulled, just given a little _tug_ and she had come fucking running.

 "Because I lack good judgment,” Jessica said flatly. 

 Officer Simpson looked up at that and stopped nodding. “Well now you know,” he said in a deep voice, Jessica guessed was supposed to be supportive. “You’ve got to keep yourself safe. Leave the real bad guys to us. What’s the name of your company again?” 

 “Alias investigations.” 

“And where is it located?” 

 “We don’t have an official office yet.” 

 “You might want to get one.”  

 Jessica kind of wished he would try to take her down, so she could have an excuse to break his arm. As it was she gave a too-bright smile that purposefully didn’t reach her eyes. "Good plan." 

 “Okay,” he said lazily, “and now can you tell me a little bit about what you saw happen with Ms. Yin.” 

 "Ms. Yin?” 

 He titled his head outside, where an ambulance was pulling out from the curb. 

Jessica’s stomach flopped lamely. _Not your fault, Jones._  “I saw her put a napkin in her mouth. She choked on it. Must’ve been some kind of prank gone wrong or something.” 

That serious mother was probably the least likely person in the world to prank someone, let alone by stuffing a napkin in her throat, but Simpson bought it. Or at least he believed that she was stupid enough to buy it. 

 “You didn’t see anyone threaten or coerce her in any way.” 

 “No.” 

 ' _Sit down, Jessica.’_ She pressed her hand over her mouth to  brush lingering aftertaste of him off her lips.

“Uh-huh,” Simpson said. “And Mr. Hannigan.” 

 Jessica dropped her hand to the side, not needing this guy pointed out. The waiter was talking with a paramedic who was examining his neck. No stretcher required. 

“I think he had some kind of psychotic break.He tried to cut his own throat in front of me. So I tackled him.”

“Seems like you didn’t get there in time.” Then Simpson added, gently, “That was some quick thinking on the table cloth though.” 

 “There was a lot going on.” 

 He sighed. “Now I’ll need your address, in case we need to contact you again.” 

 Jessica crossed her arms. “Don’t you have that on file?” 

 He gave her a tight smile. “Easier if it’s all in one place, Ms. Jones.” 

 Jessica sighed and rattled of Trish’s apartment number. “Can I go get my purse now?” 

 “Just one more thing, off the record.” He tucked his phone back into his back pocket, where it bulged out awkwardly. Although not as awkwardly as what he did next, swaying toward her, eyes slightly glassy. Drunk almost. He was definitely going to hit on her.   


When he spoke it was in an intimate rasp. “I had a truly lovely time with you tonight, Jessica. Sorry, I'm having to communicate with you through this waste of humanity, but best I can do, what with your little show." 

  _No._

 The first time Jessica had ever been on a rollercoaster she was twelve and she had been determined not to scream. She’d gritted her teeth and closed her eyes, and counted each rung on the track that clicked as they went higher and higher, and when they got to the top, her feet dangling into the thin air, the stench of stale vomit and fried funnel cakes and sweat coating the seats, Jessica remembered thinking distinctly that there really wasn’t all that much to be afraid of. That it wasn’t that bad. 

 Then they dropped. 

Hearing Officer Simpson, repeat Kilgrave’s words with Kilgrave's mannerisms in an American accent, was exactly like that moment. Only slower. Horror spread through the bottom of her gut in a cold creep.   
  
 “What did you say?” she hissed.   
  
"There's no point in running away, Jessica. As you can obviously see by now, I can control anyone. Officer Simpson here is just the start." Officer Simpson even drawled her name like Kilgrave did. Listening to Simpson felt the same as staring into the crowd through the flashing emergency lights, someone innocuous and everyday suddenly sinister, and then normal again, the fabric of reality fraying.  The queasiness in her gut rose up into her lower chest.   
  
"Stop it." With the palm of her hand she shoved Officer Simpson right in the badge, but he was surprisingly sturdy.  
  
"What you need to do now is just sit tight for a tick. Don't follow Simpson looking for me, I'll find you when I'm ready. We don't want people getting killed now, do we? But there is one thing I want to know." The blankness of Simpson's eyes was an eerie contrast to the rich colors in his voice. “How did you do it? How did you break my control?”

 Numbness coated her skin, her eyes, her lips.  Jessica didn’t want to know what Kilgrave would command Simpson to do if she didn’t answer his question. But if she did tell the truth, what if Kilgrave could undo her ability to resist him? 

"I don’t fucking know,” she spat finally. 

 “Guess.” 

"No." 

 "Or I'll shoot myself in the head," Officer Simpson finished, not so much a response to her refusal as the last line of his script. 

Well, there it was. This threat hit her less hard than the first one did, and she shivered at the realization that she was already becoming used to Kilgrave's manipulations. Each human life felt more expandable than the last. How long until she refused one of his ultimatums just so that she didn't have bear this weight cinching around her ribs, tightening and tightening?   
  
Simpson's hand floated to his holster like it was divorced from his body. 

"I'll tell you," she said, stalling for a moment to find the answer. 

_“What it would be like if I couldn’t. What you might do to me. What I might deserve.”_

 It wasn’t hard to remember what standing so close to Kilgrave had felt like. She remembered seeing the pores of his skin, smelling his black leather and vanilla cologne mingling with her own scent. Her gut had ached with a need so razor sharp it shredded her conscience. There was a moment when she would've done anything to feel his hands wrap around her waist and pull her in for a kiss. 

It wasn't just physical.

 Reflected in his dark eyes feelings seemed bigger than they really were. For once the abyss that had been slowly gnawing on her since her parents’ deaths didn’t seem like something she had made up, because for every shadow that lurked in her soul he had ten more. It made her feel less alone to know that she wasn't the only one with a monster inside.  But while she fought her demons every step of the way, he let his fight  _for_ him. She'd never do that. 

Not because she wanted to be good or save the world, but because she couldn't handle hurting anyone else. Not the girl sitting across from her mother, watching her choke to death. Not the waiter with his weak-wrist and hopeless prayers. Not even G.I Jack-ass Simpson. And most of all Trish. She may have promised Trish she'd save the world, but really all she ever wanted was to save her.   
  
Knowing all that: that she wanted him, but could never _never_ have him, she hadn't needed to fight his orders as much as move through them. Hear his commands. Feel the need to obey. Accept it. Taste it in his mouth. And then let it go. It hadn't been easy, and she wasn't sure she'd be able to do it again. Which was the exact reason she couldn't tell Simpson the truth. But that didn't mean not telling Simpson anything at all, and thankfully, he was very bad at picking apart her lies.   
  
 “You tell him that I just remembered that he’s a fucking psychopath, and deserves a whole fuck of a lot more than a couple of swear words,” she said, much more flippantly than she felt. 

 Officer Simpson shook his head, as if he had forgotten something, and then took a step backward, still slightly unsteady. His meaty hands rubbed at his temple, like he could scrub out the lingering effects of Kilgrave's influence.   
  
"Hey," Jessica soothed, trying to remember how Trish did it. The whole making men feel better about themselves thing. "It's okay. He got you, but you can fight it. I just need you to tell me--" 

"Shut up." He looped his fingers through his belt as he inhaled, taking in the scene like a cowboy looking over a successful cattle drive. "You can go look for your Mom's purse now. I've got some business to take care of."   
  
"Wait!" She grabbed his arm, harder then she meant to, but even after he squirmed, she didn't let go. "You have to tell me where went. The man who told you to ask me all of those questions, did you see him?"   
  
"You need to take your hands off me, M'am."   
  
"You don't understand, you're under his control--" 

"I have no idea what you're talking about, but if you continue I am going to have to charge you with assaulting an officer of the law." This time when he reached for his gun, he did it with a quick, coordinated grab.   
  
Jessica released him before he had a chance to undo the holster. "Okay. Fuck. Sorry." She kept her arms high and open, as she put a few paces of distance between them. "But you did hear what you just sounded like right?"   
  
 “I think you should hear what _you_ sound like." He squinted at her. Patronizing came in many flavors with this douche-lozange. She'd call this one, faux-concern. At least Kilgrave took her seriously as a threat. It was possible that Jessica wanted to punch him in the face more than even Kilgrave.  She settled for bashing her first into her own palm hard enough that it hurt her and probably could've broken his jaw. Pain always clarified things. 

"Just go take care of your, Mom, all right?" he said, with what he probably thought was kindness. Fuck, most people probably would've pegged it as him being nice, because he didn't arrest her or shoot her. Most people were the worst. God she hated them. And Cops. And Lawyers. And everybody. She envied Trish's ability to genuinely want to help people, instead just wanting to not ruin their lives.  
  
"Right," Jessica said with smile so plastic she dreamed of suffocating him with it.    
  
He just pointed behind her, like he had no recollection of assaulting her at all.  "Bathrooms are that way, remember?"  
  
"Right again." Then Jessica spun on her heel and stompedoff. 

She calmed herself by trying to figure out why Officer Simpson hadn't listened to her. It was possible Kilgrave had told him not to acknowledge the orders he had been given, but it was even more likely that the cop had rationalized it away on his own. Just like he had the article about her stopping the car dressed in a sandwich costume. Assholes like him made it so she didn’t even need to wear a costume. All she had to do was be herself, because he'd never believe that some girl in a hoodie and ripped jeans could save the world.

The unfortunate flip-side of that was that a stick-thin guy dressed in a nice suit with a British accent was also probably an equally impossible villain to Simpson. He'd probably be too busy illegally searching immigrants in turbans or black men with saggy pants to ever notice Kilgrave. Still, Jessica couldn't blame him for living in denial completely. She had tried that strategy herself for an hour or two. 

 With a bang she kicked open the door that led to the ladies bathroom. Warm yellow bulbs dotted the perimeter of clean mirrors overlooking sinks made of the same green granite as the floor. Carefully arranged baskets of pout-pourri lurked in the shadows cast by richly-textured hand towels hanging from bronze racks.  
  
Jessica never got why people cared about making a place that was, fundamentally, full of shit look good. Then again, look at how well Kilgrave dressed. 

 When she got to the sink, she ignored her reflection and instead pulled out her phone from her back pocket. Stupid ass decision number #666 of the evening: not recording all of this on an app. That would've been proof even Simpson would've had to reckon with. Now all she had was the time ticking away in the right-hand corner of her screen. 

8:30. 

She wasn’t sure exactly when Kilgrave had left, but she probably had only a few more minutes until she could get out of the restaurant. And then what? Run after him? Run away? Whatever she did, he’d be watching. He could be anywhere. Ordering anyone. He had her address and the police on his side. 

Oh fuck. 

He had her address. 

_Trish._


	6. AKA I Really Wanna Be Your Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many answers are given this chapter!

Kilgrave had fucked a lot of women. It was crude, but it was true. Not just supermodels and movie starlets —  but normal girls.  It was around 17 he decided to widen his palate, and since then he developed something of a fetish of elevating the everyday. 

On a Sunday, he might borrow a barista for a day of wandering in Central Park. There he'd have her nick an ice-cream cone and run down the footpaths, laughing, holding her hand. Once they got to secluded bench by a waterfall, he'd have her give him the "best head of her life", her lips still cold.  
  
On a Tuesday he might whisk away a mother in Brooklyn taking her tyke grocery-shopping. He'd make her leave the brat on a piping hot park-bench, like she had surely wanted to thousands of times before, and give her the date-night of her dreams. Pre-fix menu at Kosami or Minotaru, a whole designer outfit crafted by his personal tailer (whom he stole from the Couture sweat-shops in Paris), and then of course a night of sex in the Four Seasons penthouse. Her saggy little tits would press up again the window for the whole bloody city to see and he'd groan in her ear, "You're fucking gorgeous, darling." When they both came she'd scream his name again and again and again. He was a bloody hero. 

An artist really. 

 He even let them keep the clothes the next day, and if the police stirred up trouble about the ice-cream cone or the kid, he fixed it if he felt like it. As for protection, that was a constant. Who knew where they'd been? 

Only once or twice had he had to take a trip to the DA's office to disabuse some foolish girl of the notion that she had been raped. He wished he could be a misogynist and blame it all on women, but it really was people in general that had a bad habit of being entitled. It was mind-boggling how many idiots thought they deserved free-will as some sort of birthright. The world was full of plebeians too proud to admit that they were really nothing more than puppets to his whims, and not just his, but anyone with power and the will to use it.  
   
And that, he was realizing now, was exactly the problem. You can't have sex with a puppet. Not without it being nothing more than elaborate masturbation. Forget about love.  Respect. A real relationship. 

But Jessica. 

Ah, God. Jessica Jones.

He may have been able to create beauty in his hollow existence before her, but she was nothing he had ever made. Could ever even change. She was wholly and spectacularly herself, and around Jessica Jones, Kilgrave felt for the first time, not like a God, but like a human. Funny, how he hadn't really known what loneliness was, until he realized he wasn't feeling it anymore. 

His whole body still shook from their encounter as he leaned back against the cloth seats of the silver Lexus, smiling. Up front the driver focused on the road, as he commanded her to, although Kilgrave had given no instructions about where to go in particular. 

Good, he wanted to be left alone. 

 Every time he so much as blinked, images of Jessica stormed his psyche. The feel of her smooth hair pooling against his fingers like dark water. The paleness of her skin, and how well it would bruise with his kisses. The gentle puckering of her lips, slightly open, as she realized that he had the upper hand. The triumphant smirk as she thought she had won. And those eyes of course. Narrowed, sparkling, spitting with fire. Unable to look anywhere but at him. 

 She was so _real_ it was as if he could still taste her. It had been in one way, his first real kiss from a  _willing equal._ Yes, technically he initiated, but even she couldn’t deny that she kissed him back, and all this _after_ she had broken his control. Which, by the by, had been the most terrifyingly arousing thing he had ever experienced.

 Of course, yes, it presented problems. Luckily, he had solutions.

His phone, a sleek model not officially out yet, buzzed in his lap. He was so lost in mooning, he twitched in surprise and then chuckled at himself. He was just about to tap the text, when the driver swerved violently into the left lane, making the turn just as the green arrow turned red and the line of cars heading in the opposite direction creeped forward. Cold glass slapped his cheek, as he was thrown off balance. 

"Next bad turn like that I make you smash your skull through the windshield!" he shouted.

After a moment  the ride smoothed out, and Kilgrave returned his attention to the green bubble with the information from his little spy. In addition to confirmation of their in person meeting tomorrow,  the cop had sent an MP3 of Jessica's official statement to the police, along with her address and a discreetly snapped photograph.  The quality was shite, of course, blurry and grainy from the low-light, but just seeing her face relieved some of the tightness between his shoulder blades. There she was hunched over, prowling toward the bathrooms, turned from view. He could catch just the sliver of her profile.

 How had she reacted to his little message? Had she cursed out the officer? Punched him? Would he have to rescue her from jail? Or had she given up her secret easily, terrified of another bloody mark on her moral ledger? He’d find out tomorrow. And wasn’t that anticipation fun!

 With his finger he traced the slope of her nose, before booping the tip of it. It was time to roll up his stylish sleeves and get to work.  Their courtship deserved his full attention. With a few swipes, he brought up his contacts and clicked on the neutral silhouette of the only number he had saved. The other line rang once before a familiar voice answered. 

 “Kevin?”

 Kilgrave winced. He’d asked her time and time again to call him Kilgrave, but she never listened, and he didn’t quite have the heart in it to command her. She was the one puppet who’s strings he’d never pull.  Not after what she had done for him of her own free will. He did have a soft-spot for people caring for him without him ordering it. 

“Mum.” Kilgrave said genially, “How’s Costa Rica? See any sloths yet?” 

 His mum laughed at that, which was nice. While her laughter didn’t come often it was throaty and real — unlike half of the expressions of the average American. In the background strange musical birds chirped over the rustling of a warm breeze through wide leaves. When she spoke, he could hear the soft smile in her silences, “None yet. I may have to go to the preserve. And don't you send me one.” 

 Kilgrave rolled his eyes. That was his mother, let him pay for her to travel the world in style to whatever place tickled her fancy, but God forbid he abscond from the zoo with a sloth or two as a Christmas present. She’d actually made him give it back. He loved his mother, like any man should, but her unwaveringly simple code of morality was one of the many reasons he wasn’t with her currently in the tropics and why he had left home at the tender age of twelve. That and a distaste for her cooking. 

 “Well," he tapped a march-like rhythm on his thigh, "I'm going to have to ask you to cut your vacation a bit short.” 

 "Oh, why?” Her worry bristled irritatingly through the phone speaker.   


 “It seems my poor old brain is acting up again.” 

More rustling on the other line, Mum was no doubt sitting down. Probably taking out old-fashioned pen and paper, ever the research assistant, even though her partner was long gone. “What symptoms have you been experiencing?” 

 "Oh, the usual. Elevated heart rate. Headaches. Loss of sensation. I don’t think it’s that troublesome, but I thought better to let you know then have it spiral out of control again. Probably just another shot or two of your good ole serum ought to do it. But you know how I like the personal attention.” 

 “Any increase or decrease in the duration length of your powers or other side-effects.” A scratch of a bad ball-point against paper like nails on chalkboard.  


 “72 as always. ” He sniffed, as if he could inhale patience. 

 “I’ll be right over on the soonest flight.”  
  
Still Kilgrave found himself smiling in kind, genuinely pleased at the thought of seeing his mother. And not just because a few shots of her serum should be enough to mitigate the effects of whatever immunity Jones had developed. It had been a couple of years since they had last touched base. “Excellent. I’ll send someone to meet you at the airport.”  
  
But all the same, he hung up before she had a chance to ask  if he had finally found some sort of employment or how he was keeping on. Really there was only so much normalcy he could take.  Perhaps, his sentimentality in not commanding her was foolish, but any woman who’d kill her own husband to protect her son, certainly deserved a little respect. 

The car rolled to a stop, and Kilgrave rolled his eyes as he pocketed his phone. The Lexus really was a nice car. It'd be a shame to ruin it by having this bitch bash her head through the front windshield. "Why are we stopping?" 

  “This is my apartment,” his driver said. “You didn’t tell me where to go. Just to go.” Her voice was strangely familiar, pitched low and purposefully warm.

 With narrowed eyes he surveyed the apartment building she had taken him too. “Not bad,” he said honestly. The doorman out front was a good sign, as was the clean modern decorating he glimpsed through the tinted window. The bronze numbers under the awning seemed to gleam with portence. Maybe this was a famous building, although the architecture was far too new and insipid for that or… 

 Hold on. He brought up his phone, checked, and sure enough the number on the building was the same one attributed to Jessica Jones's address. He grinned. The fates were conspiring! 

 He was about to question his chauffeur to see if there was a connection, when she tucked a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear, a nervous habit no doubt, but it revealed her face. He recognized her as well. She wasn’t quite the same without the red hair. “You’re Patsy Walker. I'm right aren't I? Look at me." 

The front seat groaned as she twisted to face him. With her pursed lips and angry little eyes the effect was almost hilarious. Had she been glaring at the road like that the whole time? "You're right." 

"Oh come, stop looking like I took a piss in your champagne. Smile." 

Her lips stretched wide open even as her brows knit closer and closer together. Her disobedience was, he had to admit, adorable in its own way. Oh, she was no Jessica Jones, but in another life he certainly would've shown her the error of her grumpiness by making her give him a blow-job. Think of all the fun they could've had on live radio at that. 

But that was all juvenile now. The time for playing games was over. The time for winning them had come.

He leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees, enjoying how Patsy darted back, still smiling, but no longer with that prissy glare in her eyes. She was afraid. Good.   
  
"Tell me," he asked in a throaty whisper, "do you know Jessica Jones? You live at the same address." 

Poor little Patsy didn't even skip a beat. "She's my best friend." 

 "Your best friend. Really?" He rolled the word around in his mouth, savoring all the delicious possibilities it implied. "Now that's fascinating, you see. Because I'm her boyfriend. Well, lover really." 

"No, you're not. You're her client." 

"Her client? Is that what my Jessica's been telling you?" He shrugged. He could've been offended that Jessica wasn't admitting the truth of their relationship, he supposed. But then again, he'd had to threaten someone's life to get her to admit her attraction to him. Also, there was some sliver of him that enjoyed the intimacy of the two of them having a secret.   
  
"You're not her type."   
  
 "Try not be such a bitch, hmm?" 

Patsy’s hands tightened around her steering wheel, her blood-red nails glinting like filed down little claws. "I'll try."

"Good. And relax." 

There, finally, the fight slipped right out of her. Finger by finger her hands fell away from the steering wheel, her brow smoothed, and the seat groaned once again as she melted into it, but he still there was that poise about her. Bloody little princess, thinking that she could tell him what was best for Jessica. 

"You do know you were being a little bitch, don't you?" 

The beauty of his earlier command was that she couldn't not look at him, so as she processed this new order, he got the front-row seats for her shame. There was art in how her pitiful blue eyes widened and red flooded her cheeks. It was the first genuine expression he had seen on her face, certainly better than all her cheeky smiles and pranks on that kid's show. Embarrassment suited her. Kilgrave admitted it, he enjoyed bringing the mighty low, almost as much as making the low mighty. 

"Say it," he pressed.

"I was being a little bitch," she whimpered. 

He nodded. That was enough. The truth of the situation had finally sunk in, prodding her further would be like kicking a puppy, and abuse of animals was silly in the long run. Only so many ways it could look pathetic. If you don't want the thing, just throw it in the river. "Why were you at the restaurant? Did Jessica ask you to come?" 

“No, I followed her after she left our apartment."

Kilgrave rolled his eyes. "We both know you can talk, Patsy. Don't clam up now." 

"She was worried about making an appointment with you. I could tell, cause she hurried out. She never hurries. And then she took a cab with the last of her savings. I thought maybe she was just excited for her first case until that, but you, you must've told her to meet you at the restaurant didn't you? The same way you made me drive you around?" 

 Blabby Patsy, smiling with that same faux-friendliness that won her so many fans on the show.   “Not to mention Jessica’s been blowing up my phone for the last ten minutes with texts, which I haven’t been able to check because you’ve -- "

 “Are you done now?” 

 “No, and —“ 

 “Wrong answer.” Kilgrave answered coldly. “Shut up.”

Ah, blessed silence, sans for the hum of the engine. He reveled in it a moment. The Lexus really was a comfortable car. No Aston Martin, but for all that Patsy didn’t deserve the fine things that life had blessed her with, fame, a wonderfully attractive best friend, a splendid automobile, he couldn’t deny that she had good taste.  That and the fact that she would be useful was enough to save her for now. Perhaps in the future, he’d have her eliminated. Maybe he’d even tie her death to Jessica’s foolish moral code. Prove to his love that she couldn’t save everyone by doing the right thing.  And when her worldview would come crumbling down he’d be there to pick up the pieces, to show her how alone they really were in this world except for each other. 

 But for now…

 Well. This could almost be fun. 

“Patsy,” he drawled, milking the anticipation in a pause worthy of public radio. “Get out of the car and come sit next to me, will you? It’s time for me to explain how things are going be with you, Jessica and I from now on.” 

 


	7. AKA Honey I'm Home

Home was a funny, fucked up thing. To Jessica it was the smell of laundry detergent and juice boxes (Phillip's favorite), or the glint of a flask of Wild Turkey wrapped up in a ratty flannel shirt , or the feeling of the grooves in the front cover of her diary, where she'd carved her name and the words "PRIVATE" with a ball-point pen.

And all that was gone.

Yes, Trish was her best friend. But once you caused a car crash that murdered your whole family you didn't get the luxury of just starting over cleanly. Instead you took the little love you got, held onto it so tight and hard your fingers turned into a fist, and then you punched the world in the face. It was the last place anybody would think to look for love, inside a fist.

That had been Jessica's strategy, but as she pushed through the revolving door of Trish's (technically their) apartment building she thought she might need a new one. Only a tap and the doors spun, hurling her out of the cold chaos of the street and into the lobby where the security guard sitting at the desk blinked, then went back to watching his monitors. Jessica sprinted to the elevators. She was moving so fast she couldn't slip on the freshly polished marble floors.

14 texts and Trish hadn't responded to a single one. Kilgrave could have had her right now, making her do fuck knew what. When Jessica reached the elevator, she stabbed the up button, bouncing on her heels.

"Come the fuck on."

Above her head the light inched from circle to circle slower than a stalled download bar.

3…2..

Jessica's hands were between the metal doors before it hit one. She leaned into her shoulder, ignoring the ache in her muscles that promised this was a stupid fucking plan.

Ding.

The door opened. Jessica fell inside and again returned to the ritual of pounding the buttons. Although she kept from using her fist. The super for the building was already too well acquainted with the strange "accidents" that seemed to follow her around, and breaking the elevator wouldn't get it there any quicker. Neither would chanting, "Seriously, hurry the fuck up." but Jessica tried it anyway. Eleven floors, another sprint down a hallway, and three more repetitions of "Please, please, please," later and Jessica was wrenching the key in the lock, yelling, "Trish! Are you there?"

The door gave.

Trish sat at the kitchen counter, perched on one of her stools, pouring over tomorrow's show notes for Trish Talks. She perked up. "Jessica?"

Jessica hadn't realized how tense she had been until she wasn't anymore.  The thought of Kilgrave with Trish made even the nooks and crannies of her body feel like a pulled rubber band. It relaxed a little at the sight of Trish, unharmed, but didn't release completely. 

"Trish." Jessica hovered in the doorframe, right at the edge of the plush carpet Trish had bought, because in her words "Jessica, I swear to God you stomp everywhere. It's too loud." Her toes twitched inside her winter boots, the only part of her still cold from outside.

Trish raised her eyebrows and twirled her pencil, once, innocuously. "So how was the meeting with your client?"

"Did you meet a man tonight? British. Well-dressed. An asshole."

Trish rolled her eyes, and then her shoulders, straightening, as if to demonstrate that she had been hunched over for the last three hours. Or maybe because she actually had. "No. I've been here all night. Working. Because you asked me to. Why?"

"You didn't answer my texts."

"You know I keep it off when I work." Trish held up her phone. The screen was black.

"Right."

The problem with having an actress for a best friend was that Trish was a great liar. If Kilgrave was controlling her nothing in her body language gave it way. Her posture was perfect, now that she was no longer working, and her blonde hair was as shiny and neat as if she had just gotten it blown out.

"Okaaaay," Trish drawled. "You wanna tell me where you were, since you're clearly freaking out. Who's this British guy?"

Jessica dragged herself over to the cabinet, pulling out the bottle of scotch. The good stuff. If she didn't know that Trish loved her, the fact that she never scrimped on their booze budget proved it.

_I would know, if he had done something. I could tell. It's Trish._

Jessica closed the newly installed cabinets with a whomp. The wood, fancy as it was still fractured from the force. Jessica winced.

"Jesus, Jess. That's the second cabinet this year."

Jessica took a swig from the bottle and scotch slipped down her throat, straight to her belly where it mingled with the acidic guilt already festering there. "I'll pay you back."

"We both know you can't. Come on. Sit down and tell me what's going on."

Sighing, Jessica finally joined Trish. Just to be safe, and hating herself for it, Jessica chose the stool on the far end of the counter. Trish wouldn't hurt her. If Kilgrave ever commanded her to she'd fight. _Although would she win?_ , Jessica thought darkly, as she remembered Trish, tossing and turning in the hospital bed, coming down from Oxycotin. Out of the corner of her eye, Jessica picked at Trish's appareance, searching for more clues. But Trish only looked at her with that knowing patience. 

"Jess," she whined. 

"I had a weird client," Jessica let out. 

Trish shuffled her papers, turning them over, caressing the corner of the page, just the edge of it. She was just asking for a papercut. "Yeah? How so?"

"He has powers."

"Like yours?" Trish clarified gently. Trish was too damn good with people for her own good.

 Jessica shook her head, searching for the words. “He can control people… with his voice, I think.”

The back of her throat still felt a little dry, the mothy aftertaste of his control having migrated down from her tongue.   _“Be polite, Jessica."_

“Like a vampire?” Trish’s years of interviewing celebrities about their exotic pets and dramatic dating lives could make any question sound sane.

“A vampire?”

Trish shrugged, smiling sheepishly. “Factoid left over from that audition I did for The Vampire Hunter. You know persuasion. Compulsion.”

“God, you were pissed when you lost that role.” The beginnings of a smile cracked at Jessica’s tight mouth, and she raised her voice in a breathy imitation of Trish. “I do so look like I could kick ass, damn it. Tell me I can kick ass, Jess.”

“I think that’s when I bought you the costume.” Trish leaned over the chairs between them, eyebrows waggling as she crooned. “I still have it, if — ”

“No,” Jessica said. She sounded bitter. Even for her.  She’d ditched the idea of being some kind of caped crusader years ago, because it was silly, and she’d figured her low-grade strength super-power fit low-grade, private detective-y crimes. But now… Now, the idea of donning some kind of skimpy costume and pretending to be good rankled for a different reason.

She could still feel his fingers on the back of her hand, so clearly she’d swear she could sketch out the whorls of his fingerprints. His touch had been hot. Like freshly spilled blood. Or maybe that was her. Around him it was hard to tell where he began and she ended.   
  
The bastard made sure of that. 

“He’s not a vampire,” Jessica said. “Unfortunately, he’s just a man. And a psychopath.” 

 "What did he do?"

"He made our waiter kill himself. Well, tried." Jessica twitched, glancing reflexively back at the cabinet and the bottle of scotch hidden behind its now cracked facade. But it wouldn't matter how much she drank. It wouldn't change anything. "Thankfully, he lacked wrist strength and the knife wasn't sharp so..."

"Jesus, Jess! And you're going looking for this maniac? What if he does that to you?" There was real panic in Trish's voice, which was saying something. Trish hated sounding weak in front of anyone, and since she spoke for a living, she had weird control of her vocal cords.

A shiver rippled across Jessica's chest, but she didn't feel cold. The base of her throat radiated warmth, her heart pounded. " _Let you go? Oh, sweetheart."_ Jessica hated pet names. Hated him. But he had tasted... He had tasted like the bottom of the bottle, like passing out, like oblivion, like the things you aren't supposed to be able to look at in the eye, let alone kiss. Funny, she was beginning to think that him controlling her wasn't the problem at all.

_It's me controlling myself._

"He can't," she said, but her voice shook.

"Well even if he can't. He can control other people, right? This sounds like more than just a couple of assholes in an alleyway." Trish's fist closed around the pencil, gripping it so tightly that even with her human strength Jessica was beginning to worry it might break.

"Trish, you're the one who wanted me to be a hero." Jessica scooted herself a chair closer and grabbed Trish's hand. When they made contact, Trish's fingers unclenched. Unlike Kilgrave, Trish's skin was warm and dry. Grounding. They always did that for each other.

"Sorry, it's just…" Trish didn't let go, but squeezed Jessica's palm in return. " Just the idea of someone could do that to you, to anyone. It's like Dorthoy and drugs all over again and I — "

"Hey. It's okay," Jessica soothed.

Trish was trembling, her jaw gritted so tight, Jessica was worried she was going to break a tooth.

"You're good. You're okay. Restraining order remember? She's not coming any-fucking-where near you." With that, Jessica stood and brought Trish into a hug fierce enough, Trish would've bitched about super-strength if thinking about her abusive mother hadn't gotten her so worked up.  
  
Eyes closed, Jessica whispered into her hair. "Are you sure you didn't see anyone weird?"

Jessica counted Trish's breaths in the silence. She sniffed at her hair, searching for his signature scent. But there was no trace of black leather and vanilla, just Trish's light herbal, floral shampoo. 

"No," Trish said.

Jessica exhaled a puff of resignation  and let Trish go. Or tried to. But Trish refused to break their hug. "Are you sure you want to find this guy?" she asked in a small voice. 

A slithering cold feeling awoke in Jessica's stomach. Fear. Guilt. Trish hadn't been this freaked out since she'd overdosed. Maybe Kilgrave had found her, but had told her not to talk about it. Maybe that was why she was so freaked out now. Jessica couldn't think of any other reason.

"Jess," Trish pleaded. "Come on. This is over our heads."  

It hurt hearing those words. From Trish most of all. Trish was the one who had bought her the costume. Trish was the one had told her she could be a hero. No, that she had to be, even if she didn't want to. Trish was the one who had funded her private detective agency, mostly, because she was sure it was the "stepping stone" to something greater. But now once glimpse of Kilgrave, or maybe even just the possibility of it and she could see the truth.   
  
_You're not a hero. You're just a girl with a wicked vertical and a talent for turning small-time crooks into your punching bag._

"You know what," Jessica said, too exhausted to lie, "Maybe you're right."


	8. AKA The Legality of Lying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I haven't abandoned you! <3 I've just been very busy preparing for the publication of my first full-length nove, Cinder's Wolfl! It's a retelling of Cinderella with humor, werewolves and lots of steamy sex scenes. If you enjoy this fic, I can't promise you'll like it, but it does help pay my bills. So give it a look and see if its up your alley!

 

 

“I’ve been wondering something.” Kilgrave leaned back in the overstuffed leather upholstered armchair, one of his purple sleeves rolled up to expose the pale skin of his lean arms. The skyline behind Kilgrave was bleeding orange and magenta, silhouetting the skyscrapers into black razors  that shredded the clouds, and massacred what was left of the sun, but he didn’t bother looking.

 

He was focused on his mother, who in turn was busy behind the granite kitchen counter fiddling with syringes, measuring the proper dose of the serum. She was so entranced she didn’t look up, but Kilgrave didn’t command her to. 

 

It was rare he got to see her, and there was something about her face that soothed him. Perhaps it was that she wore her years honestly, her blonde hair scraggly about her face, hands deft with a experience and eyes near-sighted but still sharp. 

 

His parents had been brilliant minds. They had created him, after all, perhaps the most brilliant mind of _his_ age and certainly the most powerful man in the world. The green man, the flag waver and even iron suit had nothing on him. With a simple word he could bring them all to their bloody knees.  But world domination held no interest to him. Despite what the Greeks would have you believe there was no poetry in war.

 

War was by it’s very definition the destruction of civilization. Of fancy dinners. Of the opera. Of perfectly tailored clothes. Of witty conversation. There was no art in turning the world into a smoldering pit, like the Avengers and their ilk had.  
  
“Mother,” he tried again. 

  
This time she did look up, flicking the tube of the syringe. “Yes?” 

 

“Why don’t you practice medicine anymore?” 

 

Whatever question she had been expecting, that was not it. She stilled. “I don’t know.” 

 

“I could command you to tell me.” 

 

A beat of silence between them. Kilgrave felt the glare of the sun on the right side of his face, but he didn’t close his eyes. 

 

“Is it because of father?” 

 

His mother set down the syringe and turned her face exposing the puckering of skin on her right cheek. The burn was Father’s doing. Just like the subjugation of her once hopeful career as a scientist to nothing more than his lab assistant and housewife. Like him, she could’ve been so much more. 

 

“No,” his mother said. “It’s not because of your father.” 

 

“Hmm.” The leather groaned as Kilgrave propped up his oxfords on the coffee table. “You’re a damn fine scientist, you know. You could be doing a lot more than trying to sneak into sloth sanctuaries and servicing me, if you wanted.” 

 

The line of her shoulders beneath that horribly itchy looking wool sweater softens, and she smiles, the side of her face not destroyed by the burn looking almost pretty, beneath all the wear and tear. “I did not sneak in, Kevin. I’ll have you know I bought my ticket legally.” 

 

“Psh,” he waved away both the line of conversation and the thought of doing anything legally. “Is it ready?”

 

“Yes.” She picked up the syringe, and walked over to him in the chair, but when she reached, she stopped, surveying the view behind him. “This is a very nice apartment.” 

 

“I bought it legally,” he said flatly. “If that’s what you’re wondering. I can show you the paperwork.” 

 

“It’s not actually,” she said. The crispness of her accent was refreshing compared to the spread American drawl that had oppressed his ears for the past couple of years. 

 

“Then do tell, what are you wondering about?” 

 

She placed the syringe in her cupped palm. “I’m wondering the real reason you want this serum.” 

 

“I—“ 

 

She shook her head. “Please. Let’s not lie to each other. From the preliminary tests I took on you earlier this morning, I can see that the virus hasn’t made any further progress within your body. Which means that you lied to me about symptoms.” 

 

A sneer soured Kilgrave’s mouth, his hand flew to his rolled sup sleeve, ready to yank it down.  “You’re playing on dangerous grounds, Mother.” 

 

She sighed and closed her eyes. “I’m here. At least give me that much respect. You didn’t command me to. I chose it. Even though I knew you were lying.”

 

Kilgrave’s eyes narrowed, his hand clenched over his bicep as he eyed her warily, even as some part of him softened. She chose it. She chose him. When no one else, not even his bloody Father had. Even after he had hurt her. Again, and again and again. He didn’t feel guilty about it. That wasn’t a feeling he could muster. 

 

But respect was. 

 

“Fine,” he said finally, tight. “Someone is trying to kill me.” 

 

“Oh,” she exhaled, small, startled. 

 

Kilgrave wasn’t ashamed to admit he liked the guilt puckering her features. Like her whole face was the scar tissue of a burn. 

 

“That someone has gained resistance to my powers. And since I’m trying to be good lately,” he spat. “I thought perhaps if I enhanced my powers, I might be able to get away with not killing them back.” 

 

“Have you tried running?” 

 

“Have I tried running?” He threw up his hands, doing the acting bit fairly well if he said so himself. “Of course I’ve tried bloody running. Unfortunately, they are of the powered variety themselves.”

“And you don’t want to kill them?”

 

The image of Jessica, her strange features, eyes and mouth to big for her luminous face. The taste of her tongue against his. The way she made him fucking feel. It all echoed through him in a second.  
  
“No,” Kilgrave said quietly. “I don’t.”  
  
 “I see.” 

 

Kilgrave twisted over the arm chair, to give her the full force of his glare, “Do you, mother? Because you seem startlingly unconcerned—“ 

 

“Don’t,” she said sharply. “Don’t you say I’m not concerned.” 

 

Kilgrave sunk back into the chair, the joints of his elbows feeling suddenly numb and weak. “Well then, do you have a solution?” 

 

He could tell from her stillness that she did. And he could tell that was either something she didn’t like very much, or that he wouldn’t. Perhaps both. She turned over the syringe in her hand, the sinking sun glinting off the needle. “We could use CRSPR.” 

 

CRSPR, the ability to target targeted segments of the human genetic code and edit it, was, as his mother had explained to him, what had given Kilgrave his immunity to the virus that killed him. While Kilgrave didn’t understand all the particulars, his mind immediately grasped the arch of his Mother’s plan. “You can edit their DNA to have decreased immunity as well.” 

 

“Yes,” she gave a smile as weak as the tea she drank every afternoon. “You know, you could’ve been a talented scientist too.” 

 

“Both of us know I don’t have the patience to watch things grow out of petri dishes.” 

 He rolled his eyes. “But, yes, so you’re saying that will work.” 

 

“Might. I’d need time.” 

 

“I have 48 hours.” 

 

“I’ll try my best.” 

 

He grabbed her hand. It was dry and warm in his. He squeezed it. “I know you will. I never doubt  it.” He brought it up to his lips and kissed the back of it. “Not for a second.” 

 

She smiled ruefully. “Such a flair for the dramatic.” She pulled her hand away. “Do you have a lab I can access.” 

 

He smirked. “Not legally.” 

 

She rolled her eyes. “Bloody hell, Kevin. Just don’t hurt anyone getting it.” 

 

He rose his eyebrows and stared at her solemnly. “I won’t,” he said, not quite sure if it was a lie. 

  
And she stared back, her face lit by the last beams of sunset, looking like, Kilgrave guessed, she wasn’t quite sure if he was telling the truth. 

 


	9. AKA Fuck It, I Want To Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a long wait, but here we go! Hopefully, you enjoy! Thanks goes out to the people who review. To be honest, there have been a few times where I've not felt like updating, but your reviews kept me going!

There was something about the quiet of a recording studio. The padded walls. The microphones with their pop filters bowed over the desk like bulbous, metal flowers. Trish sitting straight backed, stretching her mouth as wide open as it could go, practicing her fricatives and plosives to make sure they were pitched just right.

 

When you were thirteen and you thought, ‘What would it look like to be a superhero?’ this was not the image that came to mind. But for Trish, this was her dream. No, this was one better. This morning ritual of her interviewing celebrities and the chatting about the everyday? Something that would’ve looked inane to the outside observer, but meant everything to her listeners?  This was Trish making her dream come true. Well, her dream that didn’t involve her literally prancing around New York in a costume. 

 

Crosslegged Jessica watched Trish from the top of the table, as she leafed through papers in preparation for her show. There were plenty of chairs, but Jessica liked being an asshole by sitting on furniture not meant to be sat on. Well, not liked really, but it felt safer to be a bitch. Even to Trish. Especially to Trish. 

 

As long as Jessica was a bitch to people and hurt them in little ways, she could never hurt them in big ones. Or if she did, _when_ she did, they’d be prepared. They’d say, “Well what did you expect? It’s Jessica fucking Jones.” 

 

Also, she liked to piss off Trish’s producer, James.

  
The asshole had been trying to get in Trish’s pants for the past year and a half and was secretly convinced that the only reason he hadn’t achieved his dream of banging “It’s Patsy” was because she was in a secret lesbian relationship with her roommate. 

 

He glared at her from behind the consoles of monitors, looking like an eskimo with his black headphones. They were so bulky they could’ve been earmuffs. “Does she really have to be here?”

 

“Yes,” Jessica interrupted, before Trish could. “Security. My directive is to not let her out of my sight until the danger has passed.”  Aka Kilgrave’s 72 hour window.  

 

Trish shot her that exasperated look she saved just for Jessica. 

James took this as permission to continue. He really shouldn’t have. “Who gave you that directive?” 

 

“I did,” Jessica said offhand.

 

“You gave yourself a directive?” 

 

Jessica leaned forward, placing her fingerless-glove clad hands on her knees. “Yep.” She popped the p. “She’s received some threats lately.” 

 

“From who?” His voice raised to pre-pubescent anxiety. 

 

“First name Nunya last name Business.” 

 

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath. “Patricia.”  He always called Trish that. Thought it made him unique. Really it just made him sound like a prissy school principal. 

 

Trish just shrugged. “We’re going live in ten James, do you really want this argument on the air?” 

 

“Sounds like compelling viewing to me,” Jessica chimed flatly. 

 

“Fine, just don’t rustle any papers and hop off the desk,” he huffed.

 

Jessica saluted him sarcastically and slowly began to push herself off the desk. Just as she landed on her phone began to vibrate in her back pocket. Probably a client. She had taken on a case a week ago, and had been kind of procrastinating around it in favor of dealing with the purple menace. 

 

“And turn off your fucking phone,”  he snapped. 

 

“James!” Trish scolded. Although with her eyes she was giving Jessica the death-stare. Even Trish had limits. 

 

_And I always have to push them._

 

Jessica held up her hands in surrender, although she cocked her head at Trish, refusing to show any real signs of guilt. Trish knew what they were dealing with, whether she had actually interacted with Kilgrave or not. She understood why Jessica couldn’t leave. And after five years of living together, Jessica being a bitch while she made sure no one hurt her best friend wasn’t exactly a new development. 

 

Trish sighed and held the button that kept them off the air. 

 

Jessica swiped at her phone about to turn it off. The number was unknown. Telemarketer. Big whoop. But along with the missed call was a single text message. 

 

_It’s been too long, Jessica. Do call me back._

_-K_

 

Her stomach dropped and her skin fizzed with cold prickles, like she had just been suddenly submerged in soda. Her breathing  stopped completely. 

 

It was him. 

 

She could feel the letters of his text message as if it had been carved onto her skin, hot and burning in contrast to the icy dread. Call me back. It wasn’t a command. It didn’t work like that. And even if it did, she was immune to his powers now. 

 

“Jessica,” Trish said sharply. “Phone.” 

 

“I, uhh.”  Jessica couldn’t quite get the oxygen to make the words.  “I’ve got to take this.” 

 

James rolled his eyes. The guy was going to sprain a cornea, if that was a thing. 

 

Trish frowned. “Jess?’

 

Jessica slipped her phone back into her jeans pocket, and gave a curt nod that was their ‘It’s not really fine, but I need to pretend like it is just for a second until I’m ready to share.’   
  
Trish’s frown didn’t go away, but she waited until Jessica had pushed open the door to the studio, to lift her finger off of the button. Jessica caught the last snatch of her introduction, “Hello, it’s Trish Walker with Trish Talks your morning — ” before the thick barrier of the sound-proof door blocked out the rest. 

 

Jessica’s hands felt sweaty as she reached into her back-pocket and picked the phone back out. The text message was still there. Taunting her. 

 

_It’s been too long, Jessica. Do call me back._

 

_“_ It’s been less than 48 hours, asshole,” she whispered to the phone. 

 

But it had felt like more, hadn’t it? Just the promise of seeing him again, hearing his voice, it did strange things to her body. 

 

Jessica remembered one time Trish had made them break their usual habit of watching Ice Truckers to watch an episode of the Bachelorette. In it the most pasty-white vanilla couple the American public had ever seen went bungie jumping. These were two people who, despite repeating again and again how “Open their hearts were to the journey of love” were on reality television. And yet, when they’d plunged off the side of that picturesque tropical bridge, they clung so tightly together it was as if they’d known each other for decades. 

 

People said hate and love were close cousins, but the true fucked up familial relationship was between love and fear. For the average human all it took was a peak at oblivion to make you fall in lust with whomever was nearest. 

 

Jessica’s body had just taken it a step further. She’d become attracted to the abyss itself. Just a misfiring of neurons. Some people were manic depressives. Some people were heroin addicts. She was this. She’d deal with it. Somehow. 

 

A man dressed in a suit clipped her on the shoulder and gave her a dirty look. Clearly her ripped jeans, permanent scowl and the whiskey still on her breath made her seem like she had wandered in from an AA meeting. 

 

Her phone weighed heavy in her pocket. She had to deal with this. With him.  But not here. 

 

***

 

The next time she took out the phone she was in the woman’s bathroom, back pressed up against the door. Luckily this restroom was fancy enough it had a chair, probably for the unlucky individual who’s job it was to be the bathroom attendant. Jessica had wedged the back of it around the door handle. That coupled with her super powered “back-pushing” and a make-shift ‘Out of Order’ sign she had Mcgyvered out of paper towels and a stolen sharpie should keep anyone out. She was safe. 

 

Well, as safe as she could get doing what she was about to do. 

 

She took her phone out of her pocket and stared at the screen. Just the thought of hearing his voice made her dizzy. But she didn’t have a choice. Her style was to look the devil in the eye and not let him get away. 

 

So before her thumb hovered over the call-back button, she tagged an app on her phone called Tracer. It had cost her $99, which for an app was kind of insane, but theoretically it would allow her to locate the caller on the other end. Kilgrave.  After setting up the parameters to “quickest trace computationally possible”, Jessica pressed call.

 

 The ring echoed strangely in the bathroom, bouncing from the tiles, to the stalls back to her ears. She had the phone set on speaker and cupped in one hand. Far away from her mouth or ears or pulse. 

 

_Ring._

 

_Ring._

 

_Ri—_

 

The third ring stopped halfway through, which should’ve meant he had picked up. Except she couldn’t hear anything on the other line. No, that wasn’t right. She caught an intake of breath, sharp, and then the exhale slow. 

 

And then again. 

 

It felt strangely intimate to hear his breath. Like they were right next to each other. He took one final inhale, through his nose, and gave a long musical sigh. She opened her mouth to say something, worried he might hang up before the tracer latched on, but she didn’t know what to say. Even saying nothing at all revealed too much. 

  
“Jessica,” he said finally, a hint of gravel in his voice. He hadn’t slept. 

 

It was hard to feel the right thing. To be mad. She was alone in the bathroom, no waiters, no Trish, no fancy meal he had dragged her to. Just his breath and her. But she had to stay furious. She couldn’t forget what he was.

“Tell me,” he said. “How are you? I ask because I’m concerned. I know we parted on a bit of a sour note.”

 

Jessica tilted her head to the side as if blowing smoke out the window and released air. That way he couldn’t hear. 

 

“The silent treatment. Ooh, not well then, I suppose.” 

 

_He’s baiting me. Just baiting me._

  
The tracer still whirled. 

 

“I don’t like this you know. Us being on rocks.” 

 

“There is no us,” she ground out, and regretted it immediately. 

 

“Come on, Jessica,” he purred. “We both know that’s not true.” 

 

Someone tried to turn the handle behind her. Hurriedly, she pressed the mute button — she didn’t know why she hadn’t done that from the start —and then slammed her back against the door.

 

“Under construction!” she yelled.

 

“The sign says its being cleaned!” A woman yelled back. 

 

“Yeah well that too. Now fuck off.” 

 

The pounding stopped and through the door Jessica caught a muttered, “Bitch.” 

 

“Jessica,” Kilgrave drawled warningly. 

 

Fuck. Jessica pressed the unmute button. “I’m going find you and drag your ass to jail. You do know that right?” 

 

“You don’t have to do this with me. Play like you care about the rules.” A rough chuckle. “I can see through you.”  

 

“I don’t care about the rules. I care about what’s right.” 

 

“Well,” he held out the word, as if _he_ was the one stalling for time. “If that’s really true, you’ll meet me at the airport in say, half an hour. I have tickets to Italy. Lovely little place on the coast, cliffs, olive groves. Shitty Chinese food, but I can’t have everything.” 

 

“Why? Because we’re ‘right’?,” she sneered.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Go fuck yourself.” Grimacing she stabbed the tracker app, disabling it, because her phone wouldn’t let her hang up until she did. 

 

“And because if you come, I’ll stop all this.” 

 

“What? Calling me.” She pressed herself against the door so hard the frame groaned. In that moment she had forgotten she had locked herself in. She just wanted out. 

 

“Don’t play dumb Jessica. You know what.”

 

“A-actually, I don’t.” 

 

“No,” he said, slowly, darkly. “I think you just want to hear me say it.” 

 

“I’m hanging up now.”  Jessica went to stab the hang-up button. 

 

“Malcolm Ducasse.” 

 

She stopped, not so much as the name being familiar, but at it not. The private detective in her couldn’t resist a clue. “Who?” 

“You’re little pet vagrant don’t you remember.  The man on the street. The one you saved, his name is Malcolm Ducasse. He did sustain serious blood loss, due to the stabbing, but luckily his mother is a nurse and was able to patch him up. He didn’t have health insurance, which is why you didn’t find him at an emergency ward. I’ve deposited a hundred thousand dollars into his bank account to cover all hospital fees and send him back to school for social work.” 

 

“Okay,” she said slowly, smiling inside not so much at the fact that Kilgrave managed to do a good deed, if you could even call buying someone off like that a good deed, but at the fact that Kilgrave had just thrust a paper trail right into her lap. 

 

“And Aiden Fenders, your waiter. Another two thousand dollars into his account, to help pay for therapists as the result of any psychological trauma. 

 

“Sounds like you’re building a whole stable.” 

 

“I’m a changed man, Jessica.”   
  
She snorted. 

He exhaled a short, laugh. “Well, not completely.” His voice dropped again to that low purr that rubbed all the little hairs on the back of her arms the wrong way. It shouldn’t have felt so good. “But I could be. If you came with me.” 

 

Much like a recording studio was a funny place to be a superhero a bathroom was a funny place to contemplate a super villain. But she did. He’d buy her fancy dresses she knew, dine out at only the best restaurants, and the sex… Well there’d be no question if she gave in the sex would be as dirty hot as it came. All that filth clothed in all that luxury. Yeah, okay, Jessica wore leather, but she understood the fucking appeal of sin and silk. 

But that’s not what strummed the strings of her soul. It was something about him beyond his psychopathy, beyond anything else, the rollercoaster drop in her stomach the moment she heard his voice. 

 

That damn abyss. 

 

All she’d have to jump and she could save the world. 

 

But god fucking damn it she didn’t want to fall. 

 

She wanted to fly. 

 

“Fuck you,” she said, and hung up before he could reply. 


End file.
